gray settles heavily in moor's evening
whence the bay moans under its marriage with the winter
and the shrew dances beneath the stars that
fall with leisure to embrace the frost—
dampening the night still

as moonlight reflects off clouds of snow,
the keeper hums a hollow tune;
he, followed by an ebbing sheepdog
romping in the footprints
of the twilight

softly cries the skylark, his sound
resonating into infinity;
soaring over the flatland-low,
and unheard by both dog and shrew,
it remains—
forsaken in the night

aimless through halls forgotten in their
silent whispers of renaissance tales,
wading through the dust and
air and silence of the mangroves

here, where roam paupers silent
and sad, reading in empty courtyards
which hide in grasses and greens;
protected by awry shadows,
they shed in the moonlight

in cracks where the sun cannot reach,
dilapidated dreams cry in the stillness,
and having not the means to tear,
the world falls apart

here, in an empty space in-between,
the ethereal comes to dance and sing
in the husks of the memories of
the past, and they
come because they are lost.

when then the light again ends,
and leaving the dust and the shadow and
the dreams alone,
it forgets of them and shines anew
some foreign part of the world,
and they are left behind to
walk in the gray
amongst the sturdy forgotten places,

here, specks float about in
the night, wishing not to be found;
and in the thickets and layers
a thunderclap, then another,
leaving footprints in the night

left alone from worldly things, the
moon shines gently on cloudless earth
made mellow by starlight

smoke rises wearily on the keeper's bay
as the last lantern is put to rest and
pensive aches consume the ice and shore;
far off plane, a gunshot ripples, but
does not make its mark,
and the midwife's husband will not be home tonight.

here, elijah sprawls bloodied and broken
in the city's last clean alley-way,
and somewhere the nightingale's cry goes unheard.
here, amelia hums her last midnight song by candlelight,
then, wishing not for tomorrow,
rests her head by the riverside

when last the quaver of a thousand sad men
lets die, the world too is allowed sleep,
and even the shrew does not awake.
here, autumn's departing warmth
is felt not longer, and all that is
left for the people are the thin beams of moonlight,
refracting off the ice.

in autumn's final days, the shrew rests
among the trees and grasses and
heather that rock gently in the twilight breeze,
as the conflagration of stars
ease their way into his mind.

rain falls unhurried onto the land,
receiving the little shrew in
rare cradle,
while dewdrops weave their way
across the low-lying moor—
strewn, mid the lone forgotten places.

the wind yet grows,
and at this the shrew makes no move
nor noise nor motion of any kind—
he is but beneath the grasses and trees and stars,
present in the twilight, dim

slowly, amelia sings the last of the sisters
to sleep, and by the hearth-light fading
into the snow-covered land,
her eyes too grow heavy under the
shroud of afterglow

delicately, snow speckles the land;
drifting idly between houses
and piling on the street-corners,
it settles a silent world—
lost to the night

the riverside is dim in the
radiance of the moon,
and by it the pauper
lies in rest,
passed by ethereal icebergs
in the bay

as the last of twilight fades away, the
bay-town's dreams wander about
as vapor,
though received by none,
they search, aimlessly, in the dark

down the lane silent under
the weight of the cold and the snow
and the deadfall which permeates the unkempt
winter roads, elijah's
breath drifts in the february air

he walks softly, making sure not
leave any more than a
minimum mark;
behind him, sounds
of a delicate piano song emanate
from within the lone woodland building,
and the snowflakes which
circle in the midnight air seem
just a little happy

down the hill,
an elk's cry radiates methodically
across the woods, followed by the crack
of a rifle in the frozen air
and then another
and then silence.

a light crests the road, and
by its light the snowflakes
dance in the winter air.

elijah rests in the snow
and, among the spell of cold and ice,
he forgets

lanterns rock with the storm waves,
casting soft shadows among the pillars
and bunks and the shallow cries
above deck—
the ocean's swell
breaches against the hull, and from above
the night watchman's bell
tolls into eternity

men jump and sway in the pale glow
of the hold, wading soundlessly
as rain bobs and cracks
in the eventide rough.

far below deck, where the light does not
reach and the only sounds are the
ocean's melodious roar and ebb,
casper does not stir,
and when then the last of the men
have passed on, and the final boats are loaded and
he is all but forgot, he awakes to a
delicate roar, encroaching
in the midnight hallow

aboard flotsam floating in the mountain's
shadow, where the seagull's thin call
rings out into the night and all that is left for
the idle-man is death, the stars circle
in perpetual spin,
propagating into eternity.

looking across to the town
made opaque by fog,
in the dark of night by faint light of
moon and star,
wet snow falls and lands,
wetting elijah's hair

sitting among the burlap sacks and
shavings and cracked stone of the storeroom,
atop faded cedar, the vole sits in watch of the
breeze floating idly through the aisle-way, coming and
going, lightly rocking the hanging blankets
in the afternoon still

not far off, the crack of a whip echos
across the woods,
through the outbuildings and deadfall and
lone metal gates, decaying
in the undergrowth

the trees sway gently
in the summer wind, and dust flies
from the runs and verdant fields
while you, leaning on bleached fencepost and
felt by the wind and warmth,
remain.

from the south, a wind picks
up and tears across the forest;
tonight, there is no moon,
and in the dim light of the hearth
dwindling, the midwife gathers the last
of her things and heads into the night.
needing not the securities of a broken home,
she wanders amok the
derelict empty places,
taking comfort in the wind

the world lies in wait, resting again
among the dust and green
and silence⁠—
perhaps soon they will wake?

a waltz plays-back on broken loop
in the dim light of the ballroom,
where veins of grass and flowers rise
above the dust-covered floor, and
pictures hang askew or shattered,
and the song echos in the empty day.

the shrill midday siren calls across
the dead land, in a language no longer
understood, singing a warning no longer
needed,
as the magpies call too
among the felled cities.

here in the hollow afternoon
where man cannot
tread and only beast remains,
only civilization's languid fabric
remains, decaying in eternity.

snow falls,
curving idly among the spires
and buttresses and
stone cathedral walls
as the world nears a still in
white solemnity

cracking, cawing, seeking all but existence.
to him, the nightingale calls
in thunderous breach of death,
strewn among the ashen night;

mirrored in parallel rhapsody,
the end of the world draws near as
ship's last bell, hallowed in the night,
is rung amok the sound of reticence;

the mountain pastor readies his last sermon
in petrified silence, over earth consuming in
faint rumble, singing in whispered prayers
of compassion and forgiveness;

faintly remembered in translucent past,
in the vague-shadow dreams where
the night-walkers roam, is the
story of a man,

In the shrews' beds of
heather and grass,
the pauper among them
harkens to hear dawn's remarks⁠—
which call to him
in rhyme and hymn,
dancing in spring-delight⁠—
reminding him of days
of lethargy and aria
beneath a summer
sun no longer found anywhere but
in days' beginnings
such as these

Water trickles and
runs in slight streams
across the heath's
jagged graywacke-earth,
and with the snowmelt and
warmth of the early-day sun,
the old among them remark that
perhaps spring might come yet again

waiting are the
alleyways covered in layers of dust
and webs of silk,
littered with relics of ancient script;
waiting is the
overpass cracked
and dying of despair,
unused and forgot
'neath the half-dim tracts of light
casting shadows
in the filament,
then disturbed! by falling star which
races between the forgotten streets,
lifting with it
the dirt and dust and dry of
centuries past,
and passing then
onto some better part of the world,
where the centuries do not pass
in wistful sleep

and the tracts of light return,
shining dully on the low static
hanging in the air,
setting shadows of silk and of
despair and of relics of an
ancient sort,
patient, until
the filament returns
in contented sleep,
unbothered and unhindered
by falling star's passage

sitting alone in the dark-
blue of january morning—bare
atop the sheets of ice and snow pressed
hard in dull contact—
the sun rises yet,
and with it there is
no more snowfall, and
the facades of hope
that come in the severed winter
fade
with the
melting ice.

silently, silently, the keeper
rests in weary reflection
in the glow of the tower's
hearth, and in his eyes
are beautiful things—
the memories of summer's
past and passed again,
of passing countryside and
the touch of south-bend's pond
in the dry heat,
of cavernous ruins
held in solemn silence beneath
an impotent sky—
and of quiet, of peace and
quiet quelled;
now,
he is just tired.

Softly, softly, Wind,
make light of your gentle day!
Return to new upon
the mellow beaches
of white, rest,
weary Wind! On
shroud of home-pretend,
take respite in the midnight
ever-cool,
and by the glow
of moon and
veil of cessation
take ease, Wind!
And bring with you no worry
nor concern, it has no place
in the twilight aether!
Softly, softly, Wind,
return to whence you came!
In pleasant fantasy,
take rest upon the
shores
which call your
name.

and i, but
speck and dust
tossed about in
universal soirée (
quarks and stuff
mingling in the
stardew)
happen upon a
well lighted place;
cast apart
from the rest of the
hinterland,
it remains
in veil of
silence-pretend
casting shadows in
vast tracts
across infinity

By dusk they roam,
Roamers true, and among them
the faint phantom notions of
vagabond-civility make
no appearance, opting instead
for the wry shadow-truths
that seem to follow the
Roamers.
They roam, finding
by their toils no struggles
nor footprints nor the slightest
reminders of what once
was—
they are as nightwalkers,
wanderers of the in-between
places,
sentinels of
the vast dusk and silence
of man;
Roamers yet (and pithy too),
walk, and coming to
crossroads of the
uncertain sort, they
opt not for
idle rest, but instead
for twilight frolic
in the tracts of
land left uncultivated
by men such as them.
Left sweltering in Autumn's
eve
atop mountain peak and
lookout, there the
Roamers spot a (true)
nightwalker!
a giant lumbering thing of
empty-intent;
and they (not
lacking in young zeal
and pompous principles of
righteousness)
ride! in chase—
And by the fading
thunderclap sound of
their departure
dusk is again left alone,
and by and through
the world
resumes in
ephemeral dance of
tulip and heather,
the nightwalker's cry
lingering in the
aether of
twilight.

Him,
finding not the fickle
promises of boyhood,
of love and sex
and fulfillment (and
wishing not to end
it here), does
not despair at
humanity's failings,
but his own, and
in them he
is brought to the
absolute truth
of being and nothingness,
of beauty and of fault,
of the romantic's deception;
and he dies
just a little bit sadder.

here,
at the edge of all that is
known
and seen,
are the last remnants of
nature's beauty—
hidden simply in the
far away lands where no
men bother to wander,
away from the chaos
and grief and
veneer of society,
the last of the
beautiful people live,
and away from the wanton
desire and wishes
of desperate men,
they exist free,
truly free

washed gently with the most
beautiful of things,
beside the light and
wind and vapors
of the ocean,
the twilight rings anew—
resting again in
autumn's tired forgiveness

caprice hums mildly, her sound
resonating softly through the gardens
where the groundskeeper drifts
in the moonlight,
his stunted shuffle leaving dull marks,
pale on the ground,
where flowers might yet again grow.

dust covered tracts dot the eastern wing
where once she grew—
a childhood of diligence
and silence cast away;
now, in the stillness of the
moonbeams which hang
suspended in the dust,
there is nothing for her anymore
but memories.

far off plain, the keeper
returns to his quarters,
hidden between the grasses and trees
in some forsaken place,
and caprice, who wishes
no longer to make noise,
lounges in the slight glow of
a barren willow,
wishing to escape.

metallic, with pure symmetry
eyes of aluminum and speckled alloys
a tube of a mouth shouting in eternal static
as a monument to the definitively human,
made real with age and imperfection
its metal luster does not fade in the spring dew
nor in the summer after-shower
when the mist rises from the earth
in a fine veneer of humidity

metallic, with pure symmetry
it stares deeper
at the pillars of concrete and steel
rotting in the undergrowth,
staring nameless into eternity

Swallows soar over the moor
in tragic solemnity,
rising and dipping between the
hills where condensation gathers on the heather and
grasses which are weighed down in the winter
cold and wet.
Where, beg you, are we to die?

The keeper watches from his tower as
the last of the nightwalkers pass into
eternal sleep, and the watchmen too lay down their
swords as the sun sets for one last time.
The shrew sings his last mournful song
in his hollow, now emptied by
death and starvation, as he lays
to rest knowing he may once again know them.
What, begs you, did we do?

The skylark calls into infinity yet again,
its song lost in the expanse of the universe,
and so it calls no more, finding respite
in the last of earth's treasures.

Softly, the sun glows hot and red and the ground
shakes and cracks.
Where are you, on the day that we die?
Singing your songs in your barren hollows and empty skies,
lying your heads in the hinterland
where man will no longer roam,
exploiting innocent shades of maroon and velvet
for their treasures.
From the ambers you see their eyes close;
them, who's eyes once towered above mountains
and were second only to God
reduced to the fodder of the land.

Stuck in infinite jest,
as he calls in broken loop
over the now hollow melodies,
resigned to damnation
with an empty voice
but no one left to listen
in the cavernous halls with their
myopic paintings
which hang without love or zest.

Besides the last man on earth
the last of the fire fades into the night,
and He,
with many stunted cries but
no consolation from an earthly companion,
fades too in the night;
and the yellowed ballroom remains empty,
and the Shepard dog falls asleep alone,
and there is no one left anymore to pay it any mind.

The last day on earth passes quietly but
for the infinite jest of some long dead man,
singing a lost song into oblivion for some lost reason.

Dead daisy, dead daisy,
oh, how I long for your song;
dead daisy dead daisy,
won't you sing me your song?
of rain and of sorrow,
of wind and of dog,
trodden and beaten—
so sallow a song.

Dead daisy, dead daisy,
oh, what a beautiful song;
dead daisy, dead daisy,
won't you sing me your song?
sung in full bloom
but now ruined by rain,
plucked on and stomped on
and picked in vain—
dead daisy, dead daisy,
how dreadful a song.

Still, Daisy,
Won't you sing me your song?
Of death and destruction
and immortal seduction,
oh, what a beautiful song;
and the roses weep,
and the minstrels sing:
oh, what a beautiful song.

melodies peeking dimly through the static
of the earth and heavens and night,
searching for human solace—
of pleasure and delight
and yellowed pages,
folded on the uprights;
only night remains now, and
we shall seek ethereal pleasure soon.

vapors rise from the earth,
where paltry rose is made beautiful and dew
beneath the dim glow of twilight
hangs in ephemeral suspension
as sisyphus;
the day is nigh.

Help me escape these
brutal
thoughts
so horrible—
the horror
the horror.
of what?
of —,
of numbness and pain
and the black consuming nothingness
consuming nothingness
from nothing,
leaving a terrible —,
so horrible—
the horror
the horror.

Send something so
that there may be nothing never
and nothing ever
will cause —.

Help—
the horror
the horror

Silently, in his own
little world full of his own
little things—
stuffed animals and
empty frames and a
million other worthless things—
the snow falls as the world comes
to an end at last.

And the pauper cries
and the protestant preaches
and the skylark calls into infinity,
but it doesn't matter much,
it's all fucked, anyways.


In the last hideout
of man,
lost from the accusatory
stares and hostile cold of
the scorched earth,
is a little girl,
raised by the sentinels of night
and by the air raid alarms and
the tremors of dying spite;
and, as a sentinel backs in reproach
while the girl
cries muffled tears,
the stars still shine and
the air raid never comes.

And the pauper cries
and the protestant preaches
and the skylark calls into infinity,
but it doesn't matter much,
it's all fucked, anyways.


Somewhere,
in the decaying light of
some fading hearth,
a father holds his daughter for
the last time,
his tears doing nothing
but hurt as they fall from
his face onto her gray lap
in the impotent winter's night—
and he surrounds her,
in a world finally their
own.

And the pauper cries
and the protestant preaches
and the skylark calls into infinity,
but it doesn't matter much,
it's all fucked, anyways.


Solemnly the priest declares
the end of the world
to his languid congregation,
and among them a boy
apart:
finding not God's promises
or fickle love,
he returns home
to the only one he truly
ever loved,
as in her arms he lies
down in final,
peaceful rest.
And, in the cold forgotten
places where infinity does
not wander and the skylark's call
does not reach,
for one, final, restful moment,
the world is their own.

But it doesn't matter much,
it's all fucked anyways.

I watched from my window as the setting
sun set once more and
sat upon the hills casting
tracts of shadows casting
darkness on the lonely people
who don't like when the sun does not grace
them or when the shadows cast
shadows of doubt casting darkness on their mind,
and I watched this through
darkened panes peering over the hills,
the hills hugging the earth,
the earth floating through oblivion—
and the lonely people breathe harder,
and the shadows grow darker,
and the sun never stops setting,
itself falling with the earth
falling around the sun
falling through the conflagration
of cosmic dust and rock and
chaos forlorn in the darkness and
darkened in the shadows
cast by the eclipsed sun,
eclipsing eight billion little lonely
people,
waiting for the sun again.

Quietly resting languid and prostrate
In the dust of eternity
Are the shadows of memories carved deep but now obscured
Like some foreign sky,
Is you, dancing in the fields among the poplars and willows,
Romping in and out of the pillars of light
As the stars so removed from the world's sadness and pain;

Silently and without struggle fade the memories
Decaying slowly into the night
Only dust carried by some cosmic wind
Dancing among the pillars of creation
But denied to the living;
So gone are they,
Faded and forgot--
Scarred deep but faded now,
Obscured

softly! blows the march wind
tossing and turning on that darkened
winter night,
rocking in its insolence the trees
and grasses and heather scattered
across the heath,
interwoven by the paltry dirt roads rutted
and empty under the stars
made vibrant! and alive
still by the myriads and convoys
of shrews Lurking in the night,
traveling predestined to some
clandestine hovel where the love
waits for them
and there is no cold and there is
no wind
and all that exists for the discerning
shrew
is the blessing of the snow child
who wanders on nights like these

lost and riled into the tendencies
of only the most opulent of vagabonds-pretend
she seeks naught! in the night,
Skipping with the stardust
to and fro some infinitely lost places,
lingering in the cold of winters so callous,
naught! but the blessing of the
stars and moon and wind
blowing forever over the heath

to the shrews the
blessing of the snow child
comes on nights such as these,
beautiful and virgin earth
so beautiful and
virgin;
they,
scampering across the heath

Is it finally time
For this loving to end?
All those cold winter nights
Under darkening lights
They were all just pretend?

Can I not love you, my brother?
Seeking love till the end;
But what could I say
Why not wish it away
Just to remember, again

I tell you it’s over
But why not come over
And try it again?

It’s finally time
For our loving to end,
And your darling eyes
Are just shadows of lies
Harkening to pretend
That I never hurt you
And I am still worth you
But I never hit send

So tell me it’s over
And I can be normal, again,
But for how I will miss you
Just longing to kiss you
And give in again;

And I tell her be tender,
And I just pretend her
Lips are still you;
But I guess that it’s done
And you’re not the one
To be with me, my friend

So hold your heart high
And forgive me, this time,
It is my weakness
That we still cannot kiss
And be lovers, pretend.

Passing through
the ice covered roads that cut through the mountains,
guarded by berms of snow
and a sky of infinite gray noise
as the clutch slips and the wheels lock up
and the car slides into one of those icy berms
and as you sit there in silence
with the heater offed by the stalled engine
the snow dashes across the hood
and the world revolves around you
and the trees bend under the cold and the powder
and there is silence,
absolute silence.

Just passing through.

think softly
as the winter snow
blanketing the saplings
or the cold embrace
of winter on the pauper
chilling him to the bone;
think softly
as the snow-white shrew,
dancing under the stars
and snow and gray,
ephemeral and smiling in his
midnight delight and delicacy and glory.

enamored by fallen kings
empty 'neath shattered shields
the dusk maiden calls anxiously
'knight, knight, whereto have you gone?'
but from the fog there is no reply
the knight has gone
and the mask remains hollow

freedom sings in the vacuum
radiating through time
dancing among stars and
bounding in fields of poppy
and dust,
blowing softly in the wind;
but it was just a dream

Why do those Fuu do as they do?
A snickering, dickering, tinkering Fuu!
Full of fun and bodacious truths,
A no-good, rotten, dirty Fuu.
They hide in my garden,
Make light of my dew;
Those running, cunning, no-good Fuu!
They scamper in my hamper,
Make dirty in my shoe,
Wherever did they come from?
Those hideous, insidious, fastidious Fuu’s!
Their white little fur,
Lord knows they leave no clues!
My wife thinks I’ve gone mad,
But it’s all the work of those rotten Fuu’s!
I’ll catch them that I swear,
I’ll catch them ‘till I’m blue,
Those little, no-good, stupid balls of fur,
I’ll teach you to cross Prof. Lanoo!

It'll all end one night
Driving slowly along that
Road you haven't driven in months
In the car where you kissed
And slept in the afternoon sun
Back when you were young and
Nothing really mattered

And you'll realize you still love her
But you won't be sure why
And so you'll drive longer and longer
Into the night hoping
For a text or a call or some pretend 
"I love you"
So you won't have to be alone anymore

But the text will never come
And on those dark sallow streets
Where you spent your youth on fire
Desperately seeking love and approval
You'll be torn down to the
Most fundamental of particles
As you realize that she's finally gone

flowering in the fields of poppy and heather and
awash in the soft glow of autumn yellow
there is you,
fading as you weave between the stalks and the rubble
of some evening remembered but long passed
not caring about the dimming stars or parting sun
but dancing in their light, so capricious

a memory,
a stagnant thing bearing testament to a time
when love was everything and the days and years passed
like autumn evenings spent staring into the future,
and in your amber beauty you smile warmly at visions
of some person who will never actually exist,
and in dusk's quaver of a thousand still-born dreams
laughing and lauding their existence in the
shadow memories of doubt,
you exist still
ephemeral and eternal,
warm like autumn evenings.

pebbles, tossed lightly over the bridge
as you lean over the rail together
and talk about that friend of yours
how crazy shes become and how shes never around anymore
and you sigh and shake your head at such a character
but smile because
shes not like that
shes around and
she always will be
so you hold her hand and walk down that
long winding trail you grew up on.

but now you toss pebbles over that same railing
leaning over it in the winter as the river bursts
and the mud means no one comes anymore
and as the pebbles sink idly to the bottom
so too do your tears, lost in the rain
because, after all,
shes not like that
shes around and
she always will be.
but, the trail is empty, and there
is no direction home.

i watch everyday as the clouds fall
idly around the earth and the
birds put their songs to rest
and the sun dips below the horizon

and i think how long a time tomorrow is
and i know i wont be there for it,

for anymore of the decay
into madness and sadness and
sitting on the roof of my car wishing
just wishing
that she was around more of the time
and wishing
that there was hope she would come back
and wishing
that she wasn't so far away

and all those wishes exist in some
shadow of a memory faded
and warped and
washed with time

and i think how long a time tomorrow is
and i know i wont be there for it,

waiting for a text that never comes
and waiting for some sign
that she ever loved me,
living some life pretend;
it's all fucked

and i think how long a time tomorrow is
and i know i wont be there for it.

I went down to the river today
and didn't find a rock
like I usually do—
one small and smooth,
flat and straight
that fits perfectly in the crescent
between the pointer finger and thumb,
that would flick and fly
and twist and spin
grazing the water as it flew across
the place where the water gets deep and still;
a rock that would fly and skim all the way to the far bank.

The river was flooded,
its brown churning water
carrying the mud and deadfall
in a maelstrom of chaos and anger.
And, as I walked back down
the long road home,
I wondered how many stones I had skipped before,
how many beautiful disks were forsaken to that far bank,
how many of them had been touched first by me—
four billion years of destruction and creation,
all to be tossed so delicately—
and how, to the stone,
the beauty of its arc and ephemeral skip
are nothing more than a callous fling
and a life-sentence
at the far-bank.

in winter morning's fog
the river casts knots of ice
covered in soot
across its gray tracts of dusk

left alone, the pauper sings by fire—
hands frayed and colored
in murk, his song is one
of a stone

as elijah walks through the snowdrifts and
and gutters and the hollow town
he thinks maybe if he was a better man
he would not be so afraid

Piercing through the cold North Dakota evening,
The farmer's pickup whines as it darts in-between the
Rutted and muddied farm roads, dashing
To the hospital where just fifteen minutes ago
A baby was born--Karen Copperfeld
To a mother covered in sweat and pain in the house
Of some lone physician lost among the plains; she,
Smiling through the pain and blood with pure
Unmatched love, where somewhere else
Her husband lies in eternal wait in some collapsed road
On that cold North Dakota evening.

And the Midwife says,
What a beautiful universe!
Which will so greatly outlive us:
The rivers carving scars through the eons
The great shorelines eating away at the earth
As the sun burns hotter and hotter in the eventide calm.


Softly, sobs Karen Copperfeld
In the dim gym corner,
Her cries stifled as the music of the evening and the veneer of love
Slowly part in the night, to be lost like some sailors who
Haul their sails one last time without ever realizing it
While still the thunder cracks around her and the
Rain pummels the roof and
Nothing has gone as it should for poor
Karen Copperfeld, seventeen years old.

And the galaxies drift and the stars collide!
And we alone are made to witness the grand destruction and
Creation of the universe,
Crashing and burning with held breaths across
The eons, slowly succumbing to entropy.


Quietly, sneaks Karen Copperfeld
Across the matted and blood-stained carpet,
Tip-toeing over matted-newspaper and trash-bags
Spilling onto the floor; but, she takes one step too loudly,
And his eyes flash open in drunken rage from across the room, and as she
Stands there in some far-off reverie while he charges her,
She can't help but think that nothing has gone as it should for poor
Karen Copperfeld, twenty-four years old.

And we alone are to discover among its slow ebbing chaos!
The conflagration of truths of this one true tale of destruction
It’s story told forever once in the halls of eternity
Echoing in the late afterbirth in the universe.


Slovenly, drinks Karen Copperfeld
In the room of a man who she no longer loves,
Wishing that she had been braver and bolder
And that she had not loved so lazily,
That perhaps if she had loved differently
She herself might still be around;
And she takes another drink, hoping it will make her brave, and
From across the room he can't help but think that
Nothing has gone as it should for poor
Karen Copperfeld, thirty-one years old.

And we alone are here!
Among the rivers carved deep in the earth
And the mountains crumbling away with each passing day,
Our existence utterly benign;
There is no greater comfort.


Silently, cries Karen Copperfeld,
Sitting neatly on a plot of fresh earth hidden
Behind an old oak tree so that she cannot be seen,
Her tears are lost in the warm rain of a summer shower
As she thinks that maybe once she could have been happy,
And maybe once she could have made someone else happy too; and
The gravedigger looks on past the oak to that tragic woman and
A daughter dead, and he can't help but think
That nothing has gone quite as it should for poor
Karen Copperfeld, thirty-three years old.

And the trees wither and grow!
And the river flows yet more,
And as a single day passes in eternity like a blink of an eye
All that has ever been or ever will be perishes,
All that death and hate and sadness
An infinitely trivial blip in a tale of cosmic chaos.


Solemnly, decides Karen Copperfeld
As she pushes the throttle to the floor and
Thanks God that there is no one left
To see her die and care,
That perhaps life was never worth living for her,
That her life was nothing more than a cosmic fluke; but
Her eyes grow wide as a deer runs across the road and she veers into a field,
Her car tossed among its ridges until it comes to a
Steaming stop among the corn and silence,
And nothing has gone as it should for poor
Karen Copperfeld, thirty-nine years old.

And the plants wither and grow
And we alone are here, to tend among them
And look up to the stars in the hopes
That one day someone like us might too get to enjoy
The slow destruction of the universe.


Silently, passes the last day on earth for Karen Copperfeld,
Surrounded by the plush Southern autumn light
And the mayflies, dancing across the pond in
Newborn delight, the songbirds fluttering around
The willows and chirping in ephemeral delight, the
Slap of a fish falling back into the pond off her porch
Subtle and sweet;
No regrets or sadness or anger penetrates the deep
Tranquility of the moment for poor
Karen Copperfeld, ninety-two years old.

The death of the universe is a beautiful thing,
A slow triumph of all creation,
The ultimate and only fate that ever has or will be,
Made beautiful and true by out witness!
An extant, decaying birth into all infinity

Relegated
to the depths of memories
the cold, fading depths,
is you—
where there exists still
two people
fervently in love,
in love in the way
only young people can be

the you who I knew then
taking care of the me who fell
in love with you, their memory and
their ephemeral love
everlasting in the plush realm
of memory

there is nothing left in the present
worth fretting over,
naught but the shadows of memories
cast in your light,
and the pain they bring
with.

On October 17th,
you cried on the phone as you told me
that maybe in some other life
we could love each other,
in some other universe,
and I relived that moment as sisyphus
on those long winter drives
in the snow and the dark
listening to your old tapes,
cursing myself and wishing
I was someone different—
someone better;
it's only now I realize that in that other life
you told me the same thing,
that you wish you could love me
and maybe if things had been different,
we, born in a different time!
we could love each other
and try again;
and I realized
that there was no longer any merit
loving a ghost

Ebbing in the mid-winter dim,
Elijah falters yet;
he, then secluded on the banks
of all that ever was and will be,
no longer sees the once
well-trodden paths of memory
and must stumble in the dark,
no direction home

Running down lanes of snow and soot,
he is a sketch of youth
          ( days he no longer must remember )

The church-bell tolls in the midnight, hollow

Desperately he cries,
going faster and further
but not escaping;
he rests his head at last,
hoping tomorrow he wakes up a happier man


Over the low, icy moans
of the frozen harbour
          She sings          ,
and in her voice are the
shadows of what never was or will be—
and he is allowed to forget again.

in halls long forgotten
where lived people grand and verbose,
killed in their exuberance
now lives the small things
which hid in-between
when the world fell apart

a small thing of a boy
of a name which is henry
lives in this steadfast
luminescent world
of sad forgotten things;
he roamed halls and sang
his little sad tunes
and came home one day
and found his love
dead and forgot,
killed by the impotence of
a stone world

he spilled tears onto the floor and
they wetted the dusty dry stone
and the earth moaned and
the stars twinkled a melancholy
twinkle and the world
became just a little more lonely;
and, when his tears dried
he picked up his love and ran
for hope from the despair
he ran down dusty caves
filled with decaying forgot structures
and skinny dark-eyed things
which hid from the light,
and he came to a building as young
as the tunnels themselves;
and in here he spoke in quick
quiet tones of matters of
consequence to an old
whiskered lady,
and she said she
would help him, for she
too once had loved
and he would need help her
in return;
down in the deepest
loneliest part of the
cave lives a white flower
which glows when the earth
hums and cries when
love dies
so the boy left his love
to the dark places where
all is naught and void
and lonely in its old age
and he ran ‘till at last
he came to the very bottom
of all that was known of the
old world, and there was
a wooden large building
with glass which could no longer
see out into the world
and the boy wondered into here
and called out into the night
and it called back
with a stumble and a greeting

hello, it said, just a little like the boy
here is where I live
and my heart hurts with the
loneliness
but never can I wonder,
for I am long without my vision

hello, the boy said
here is where I want for
and my heart hurts with love
lost
so I am made to wonder
that I may perhaps find it again

and the night embraced him
and the room lit up with the light of a small,
delicate star
and the boy knew what he had to do
so, when at last the night faded
into a world of sleep
content in the last
of his comforts,
the boy stole the little star of a flower
just a little sad to be hurting
someone for once like him

he walked slowly
away from the last of what
made him henry
knowing that his heart would
be shifted and he walked
until the light of the cave-stars
shone bright, and among
their opaque luminosity
were little imperfections
which made them happy,
but a little too alone

he returned to the whiskers
and said to her,

i have brought you your flower
and it has cost me my heart
so I hope that it may mend yours
and she said back to him,

it is worthy of such a loss
and in return I give you something
better, your love

and the little spiny thing awoke
with breath of life renewed
and it squeaked a little squeak and
in that moment
he realized his pain should not
be the burden of another
so he said to the old whiskered woman,

ma’am, this flower belongs
to the night, and he is lonely
and hurting and a little like me
and he deserves it more than I
deserve anything
may I return it to him?

and at this she grew sad
and said
no
it is mine in exchange
for life renewed
and the boy imagined the poor
old night alone and tired in a world
devoid of better things
and he made for the flower
but the woman stopped him
and he protested with a flail
but she stopped him again and pinned him
and holding some old sharp thing,
held it above his heart
and in this moment
his alive spiky thing
jumped in front of his heart
and it went through it
and killed it for a last time
and in the old lady’s horror
she fell on the rusty metal
and in penetrated her own
delicate, soft skin
and it spilled out of her
staining her silky white fur
maroon
and she gasped in the dim of day
and let a last solid breath out and
two bodies rested heavily on
the boy’s chest

he rolled them off of him and
standing, teared without
control at himself
and, picking up his flower,
said goodbye to his love
one last time
with a whisper,

thank you

he ran down halls forgotten
in their silence
until the darkness of day became
a real darkness
he returned to the night
but in the darkness
devoid of the light of a flower
of a star
he could not find it
until at last the boy wondered
into a little room with a view
within it a little glass dome to protect
the flower
and a chair with an old dead man
still wet from tears

the light of the flower then flickered and flashed
then faded and withered
and henry stumbled and fell
hitting the little glass dome and
shattering it on the floor
and the tiny pieces of glass slit
an artery
and the last of the boy
spilled on the floor
and like all that he touched
died

so wanting are the days of wintersadness,
wallow and remorse;
there, the vagabonde tales
of transcendent sadness
seem to me nothing more than lies,
fleeting as the snow
drifting in the midnight,
hallowed;
you are now becoming as beautiful
(like headlights
piercing a
static, gray
sky)
as the stars which shine above you,
the mountain and the flower, too,
alike in their eternity;
the kid you once were
would admire you in open
zeal and love!;
you, who are free and
aching and yourself!;
true and decisive belonging
may only happen if we let ourselves
drift upon the shores of tomorrow,
cast upon them
by the tides of who we truly are;
you are becoming beautiful
as the stars from which you were borne,
and they count themselves lucky
to have taken part in your creation,
so divine!
so divine

elijah, walking so quietly
you have no idea you're dancing
in the ruins of a dream

you, sitting so silently,
where death and dreams and laughter,
days of 'happily ever after'
fade, like you and me

but those days are gone,
and now i can handle
that the best thing i can do
is leave you be

now my dream is new,
his name is elijah
he speaks of harmlessness and flowers,
and he's not you

and im not so sure
how many days we can handle
in this rotting, fading world,
but at least it's 'we'

elijah, you are with me
and in these final days,
even though it's not the same,
you are my world

Wading through the muck and squalor
of a million stillborn nights,
starlight mingles in the dreams
of dusk
and silence remains.

Evenings, alone!
As the wind rages on
o'er fields of grasses and memories
thrashed and bent over;
they whistle a song
heard by you a thousand times over,
whereby the blue heron calls
to his children, felled by the crows
and ravens,
soaring over the heath
(an eternity away, falling)

        Moments of pure lucidity,
        in the silence and dread       

As the wind rages on
and the silence grows louder,
those images of autumn evenings
become faded and washed,
and the yellow patina of the room
becomes tragic, not beautiful,
and all that was once lovely
seems so deathly ephemeral.


Staring into the chamber-lamp,
your drunken, stupid eyes
see in its piercing light
the starlight of eternity,
a conflagration of beauty and fire
suspended, and staring back

when i am dead,
burn my body and erect a headstone
in some quiet forgotten place
with no epitaph and no name;
place on my grave
a photo of the ocean on a rainy day
and you, there, smiling

One day I will sit by the water
And let the moss grow on me.
My wife and child will sit by the window in wait
And I won’t come home;
The animals will sit by the fence at dusk
And there will be no one to take them in;
My house will grow decrepit and rotted,
The eves sagging in the spring rain,
And I will be by the water.

I will watch as the water striders bolt about
in midsummer heat,
As the leaves fall in autumn decay,
As the ice freezes over the lake in midwinter;

I will watch as the last bastions of man
Crumble and disappear into the valley underbrush,
As the summer fades
And so do you;

I will sit there, by the water,
On the earth I have tread on since I was young,
And I will be free;
One day I will sit by the water
And let the moss grow on me

I choose a world with pyramids,
stones of ruins buried in the undergrowth
and ashes of those before me beneath my feet.

I choose to live in a world with my own pyramids,
one where I am possessed by my past
but happy with who emerged;
I choose a beautiful world,
one with summer-lilacs and grass bent over in the wind
where, mired by her,
the bog seems all the more beautiful.

It is nothing more than the present, as always;
the sun setting and I to rest,
sinking 'er-deeper into the warm-night's desert-sand,
the past is still haunting and beautiful as ever,
and there is nothing for it but sleep.

( I )

As the sun rises on the hundred-thousandth day, a small, dusty green light flickers to life underneath Survey Bot 9816345. Inside its metallic carriage, a small, half-ruined fans spin to life, dusting the soot and dust from its reactor. There, written in almost-completely faded ink, 'Svenk'. The dull hum of fan consumes it, until its computer deems the carriage sufficiently cleaned, and it goes deathly silent.
A moment passes, then another. From its body rises an antennae, half a mark tall and slightly bent from a stray stone seven decades ago. Then, rises a sphere, sandblasted and yellowed from centuries under the super-giant sun.
Three beeps.

Day 100, 000; ambient temperature: -13º Celcius; humidity: 0%; pressure:
4 kPa. Operating at 32% efficiency. Intervention requested.

After another moment of silence, Survey Bot 9816345 knows no intervention is coming. It had been 79, 013 since the last communication he had received from The Creators. It read:

No change.

( II )

Svenk sent out a location request, then sat in silence. Eighteen minutes later, The Orbiter replied.

114km until destination; coordinates: XXX YYY. Time: 27:23.

Inside the rover, its computer went to work. Making a thousand calculations, Svenk cross referenced his location with the last reported location of Survey Bot 9816344. Transposing this data over his internal map of the planet, he confirmed he was on the right path.
Silence. Three beeps.
The sand-blasted sphere opens partially, revealing a silver-gray lens scratched and faded.
Three beeps.
Three shields contract into the body of the rover.
Silence. A click.
All at once, two tracts of light cut through the murk of the sandy sky. The sound of the wind grows, coming to a howling-crescendo as it cuts past the body of the rover.
Svenk's camera turns on, and he peers into the world for the hundred-thousandth time. Blue-silver sand blasts past a dim sun, filling the static-gray sky with a haze of other-worldly light.
The wind whistles through the open bottom of the rover.
A creak.
Svenk's lights flicker as his cat-tracks groan into motion. They dislodge from the small berm of icy-sand that formed around him in the long night, and the little rover continues North.

( III )

Meandering through the sterile canyons of the unending-hinterland, Svenk keeps his gaze forward.
He is now 87km from his destination, and the temperature is -46º Celsius.
The vast dunes give way to icy canyons, cut through eons by something unknown. Svenk did not care what cut these canyons, nor did he care where the expansive desert might end. He took no rock samples, audio recordings, or photographs.
Three beeps.

Temperature unsustainable. Rest required. Time: 31:14.

Svenk keeps his gaze forward.
Ice blows slowly across the canyon floor, moving in waves that converge in great schools, converging and converging still until the wind is disrupted, and the waves scatter; they crash against Svenk like a rock at sea. Arches of massive stone and ice rise above in ephemeral balance, while jagged walls seem to collide with the stone floor of the canyon.
Three beeps.
His lights flicker, then dim. Ice begins to show on the exposed camera, and his head goes light.
Svenk keeps his gaze forward.

( IV )

Beyond the canyons and arches of the mid-lands, Svenk peers at the dusk sky. He does not look to the high mountains which protrude from the plains to the East; he makes no notice of the deep, water-cut channels to the West, nor the ancient lake-bed in which he rests. Even further, to the Northlands, he sets his eye.
It is empty.
There, low, rolling hills subside into great-nothing. Beneath lilac sky the last of the red-supergiant disappears, revealing a smattering of bright stars. Among them, The Orbiter.

Pass XXXXXXXXXXXXX. Conditions nominal. Storm likely in T-13:54.

Several minutes pass, then several more as the sky above turns a deep, opaque-gray.
Three beeps.

Unanswered message received from SB9816344 976 days ago:
'Waiting.'

Svenk remains motionless for several moments; then, turning on his lights and retracting his antenna, he continues North.

( V )

The great tundra extends through, to the horizon. An uninterrupted, virgin flatland of permafrost, silent and freezing.
There is a dim purple light on the horizon which casts an almost imperceptible shadow across Svenk in the night. Above, a conflagration of a million unfamiliar stars shine through the methane haze.
Three beeps.

62km until destination; coordinates: XXX YYY. Time: 04:03.

There is a steady, cyclical clack as the rollers of Svenk's cat-tack rub against a piece of ice lodged in one of its pads.
Crossing the endless ice-flats, he allows himself the pleasure of looking at the stars. One-by-one, he looks and remembers them. He passes the hours in this way, his camera pointed to the sky as he remembers nights, young, learning the unfamiliar constellations for the first time. Finding their shapes in the sky, tracing them in his minds-eye as no one had ever had before; as no one ever will.
The sky grows darker in the dead of night, and over the horizon, he spots it: a white dot of light, one which ebbs then brightens with the passing of days; one which he knows to be two magnetars, circling each other in eternal dance.
They move in the aether, each following the other but never catching up, each made to stare at each other as they fly through space, wasting away and growing weaker with the passage of time.
Svenk slows to a stop, his gaze fixed on them. He remembers a story, one placed among the charts and algorithms of his memory-bank by his creator.

Many millennia ago, before the oceans dried and The Creators left for the stars--before they had even touched them--there was a farmboy named Kel. One day, Kel fell in love with the milkmaid across the river. She looked to him like the most beautiful of stars.
One week went by and he, blinded by his new passion for her, neglected his duties and went across the river in search of her, so that he might profess his love. But as he crossed the river, the horses to which she was tending spooked. And Kel stared in cold shock as he watched them trample the poor milkmaid.
He ran to her side, but could do nothing as she died.
Her father in his grief fell to his knees and prayed, prayed that she might survive. When she did not awake, his prayers changed, and he wished for the boy to be punished for his negligence. And by some higher power, it was done.
And so Kel was raised to the stars, made to orbit around another for all eternity, staring at one so like his beloved, but never coming any closer.

He wondered why, of all the data and procedures he had been left with, this was the lone fiction. He wondered who his creator had been to leave him with a tale so sad. He thought of the faded ink on his carriage: how many centuries, millennia, had it been since he was last touched?
He wondered if the story were really true, if the boy had really been sent up to the stars as punishment. Most of all, he wondered what the farmboy must feel now, after all that life had come and gone in the universe, while he remained.


( VI )

On the 100, 745th day, Svenk wakes, and he knows he is close. The flatlands continue, but now there is little left of daytime. He has travelled a century in search of his counterpart, and under ever-dim sky, he now scans the horizon for her.
Trundling through the wasteland, Svenk is weary. With every frozen kilometer, his electronics brittle and crack further. The dust and ice has lodged itself deep in the gaps and crevices of his body, making him look tired and broken.
The minutes and hours pass, and the sun which only glanced above the heath set again, marking the start of another night of cold.
Beneath the stars, he waits. He rests his eyes; so covered and cut by frost, it as just as well.
The Orbiter passes.
Three beeps.

0km to destination; coordinates: XXX YYY. Time: 26:17

Svenk releases slightly from his reverie, but he cannot move. His tracks have become frozen and stuck to the ice. He looks again at the horizon, but she is not there.
It is just as well.
He looks to the stars and they are spliced a million ways in a kaleidoscope of light. The ice, fracturing infinitely and uniquely across his glass lens, does not seem to him malicious--simply, gentle. He wonders if in a million years time the sun will expand and the ice will thaw, and maybe then he will be ready. But not tonight.
Tonight, Svenk dreams. Roaming the hinterland, he is embraced by the sun and wind and the love of his creator, and nothing is out of the ordinary. Water trickles out of the earth, almost alive, and the long dark is at an end. There, they are together, and 100, 000 years of creation and destruction were worthwhile.

When next the sun rises and you have gone,
the birds will sing just as usual;
the light will come to rest on my pillow
and everything will seem warm again,
and I a new man with the day

In the shower, the water will wash over me
and seem unbelievably soft;
in the gym, there will be nothing but pleasure
and pride,
and on that long walk home, the cherry blossoms
will be so beautiful that it seems impossible to be
anything but happy

Then again the evening will come
and I will call your name;
we will venture to some well-lighted busy-place,
and among the din and heat of
a dozen others,
we will be together,
and it will seem silly that we ever lived anything other
than this moment

weed as medicine,
hours spent watching a room with a view
the ending never changing,
the lilacs in bloom outside
and some light spring breeze blowing in;

yoga as medicine,
bent over naked on the floor
pulling and groaning and moaning,
self-intimacy and love
but not enough;

sleeping as medicine,
days and years spent staring at the ceiling
counting screws and wondering
when i was going to finally fall asleep
and wake rested;

where is my medicine,
when will medicine be enough
and my mind quiet
and my body satisfied--
why do i need this medicine,
what has hurt me and wronged me
to leave me so thoroughly battered
and torn;
is it my own fault?
have i left my body to rot
in the fields of amber and poppy
and so my mind is lost,
stuck in someplace at once liminal and definite

medicine:
days spent lying in the sun
watching the grass sway
and hearing the gentle groan of an open gate
still wondering if i am any better--
is this really what being healed is?
after all of this medicine,
is being better really any different?
or do we decay regardless

where did they go on nights like these?
what unkempt, judicial hollows did they occupy
    (so crass, so cruel)
?

grass, trampled and froze
moves as silver wave
    (faster, yet, faster)
towards moon's shadow
— what drama, what slight?

a sheer wind,

and silence befalls
    opaque and soft
o'er the planes

there are qualm's no-more
in the hearts of the meadow-folk;
their minds are
lofted in the winter night's
breeze


    dim through the fading snowfall
    is the light of a universe
    vast and new

    rising to its light,
    the shrews are but shrews
    and they do not stumble.

saturdays gone and the weeks fallen
in a drunken blur of opulence
and my mind goes there
first recoiling, then considering,
and i pull up instagram
and i say
that im really quite better now:
the dreams have stopped,
my photos culled,
and my memories faint,
and all im really doing
is checking in;
a passing curiosity,
a little indulgence,
and that of course im alright
and i hardly ever think of you
and nothings the worry!

so
i just stare at your picture
because you're pleasant to look at;
lovely, even.

as it was meant to happen,
he came by accident one night out
under the stars;
staring, no more,
by twilight and birdsong
...
soft sounds of tumbling river,
engulfed in the gentle rustling
of summer foliage;
where have you been all my life?
what mental caverns without sunshine
have been let waste
in your absence?
...
and the stars, being stars, made
no reply;
buried deep in plush atmosphere
the boy watches agape,
mind filled with
stars within stars extending
as perfection to the very
outer regions of the galaxy
...
over the hills, now, something magical,
infinite and aglow in the
dark as She comes to
rest by your side;
towering, ethereal,
it moves slowly
wading through the trees and thick air,
free beneath the weight of the stars
...
stars and stars
swirling now in
perfect June night

It is a bit frightening
To comprehend all of myself,
The fat of my sides and muscle of my back,
The hair that flows gently up my chest, the smooth of my neck;
I did not create this, not intentionally,
Yet all of it is mine to manage?
How many meals have I forgotten to feed you, dearest?
How many days have you burnt beneath the sun and on how many have you decomposed in the shade?
What sorrows have I not seen, what
pains you have you endured to work with me?

Poor dear, it’s alright now,
We’ll start mending you soon
First a hug, then a kiss
Maybe a gentle song at night

Poor dear, don’t be frightened,
That is my job
We’ll feed you and pet you
And show you the world

Poor dear, I love you violently
Your curves and your edges,
Your beauty and your sadness,
You are so deeply lovely;

So please,
Don’t disappear,
I’ll be better now,
I promise. I will give you
All the world

daughter,
forgive my tardiness,
it has been a most bumpy ride.
the desert hot,
the swamp deep and murky;
not once, but twice
i found myself lost
within the stars,
and in my floating
i forgot the trouble
and found my way home
to You

in late summer,
i think on the stoop
about your
popsicle stained lips,
their wet and
how they move;
how they move.
i think of their
cool plush softness
and the quick heartbeat
which shows on your chest,
and i think of how my lips
would look
stained, too,
your deep red

the fall will come and again
we'll dream of summer,
summer tired and burnt
as we stare at
birds and lilacs.
no, stay --
linger in the dark hour
until the air is
stale and uncomfortable,
and we'll lie beneath
the sun
while we ourselves
wait in some future day.
quiet, child --
the summer is here,
hurry, now!
it will wait no longer.
feel its slow fire,
the soft lie of its warmth;
burn, burn

Last night I dreamt
I was violently in love;
I held you, I threw you
In passion I have never known waking

I remember now, in morning time,
With the sun high and the birds singing,
The plush give of the skin of your side...
How it felt to toss you onto my bed
And kiss you again and again,
To trace your shape in my mind
Until they were one,
Why must you leave in the morning—
Always the morning?
Stay with me now,
Hold me and love me
And we will be together.
We will wrestle
And kiss
And know no one but each other;
Why can’t I ever seem to love anyone
in the morning?

Your words,
Honey-sweet,
Destroy me to my very soul;
Darling, how could I ever forget?
I am as the summer
When the lilacs bloom—
All I can ever do is
Forget and forget and forget.
And still, you return to me
A memory, a ghost, a lie
So sweet
Arjuna himself weeps

I have no strength left to hold
Even myself…

And so I forget and forget and forget,
Always seeing your love,
Terrible,
In every butterfly.

oh poor deary,
little dying bird,
the world will miss your song,
'poo-tee-weet! poo-tee-weet'

lay your weary feathers
in these shivering hands of mine
and i will take the cold
for both of us.
i will let you melt
back into the world,
feather-and-bone,
so you might sing again
in joy and love.

lovely deary,
i can hardly hold my tears.
feel the cool winter breeze
and hear your brother's
nearby sing-song;
watch the grass sway
as the world goes quiet
and i will hold you,
i will love you,
deary divine--
'poo-tee-weet!' poo-tee-weet'.

life-long strangers,
this hour, we have never been apart.
rest, bloodied in my palm
and i will protect you
as a mother.
be stilled, and we will feel
each-other:
i will be still for you.
this world, yours, mine,
and us together
will watch it part.
be loved now,
and be happy
in the arms of a friend...
poo-tee-weet, poo-tee-weet

i am drunk
on love and beer,
and so are you;
lover pretend,
stay a while in the night.

tonight,
i will stay and listen
to your stories,
despite what is good for me.
i will hear in your voice
the scar on your nose
and the smile you make
saying my name.
i will be torn by
past love,
whose echo we always
fail to stifle.

lover pretend,
stay a while.
i will hear the soft edge of
your breath,
the love in your voice,
and we will avoid saying goodbye
one night more.