free write v

there is something about your milk. full of spring, pressed through freshly grown grass... reaching... reaching for the sun. amber in afternoons. peeling under our skin. creeping over our bones. but we tip the basin and it runs over us, arms outstretched,,, reaching for tall red balloons. and we laugh. and before too long the dandelions are blown for all the wishes we can muster, all the wishes in the universe. and the sky colors and murks, and sinks into itself and opens its stars. there are too many to count. too many to share. too many to divide into this and that. but i have come. i have walked thru your doors and i find myself uninvited. i find myself at the edge of beds, tying my laces. graces. ungrossed. there are. there are times to preen and there are times to flick this to that. but i am unhome. i am out. i am gone. like skin excising a foreign body. my thorn. my splinter. copy of copy of copy. coffee ground too fine and run too many times. i run over the pavement, over the free way. when the sky closes its eyes and you cant feel when you end and it begins. you are not here or there and i her it cry in other rooms. the floor murmurs and my toes are cold against the slats. we pause. i pause i take time, and it winds like a struck bow, arching out over strings it calls (and returns). it bends in swooning feedback and i find my home in the chest, in the bosom, between the breasts of stars. i hear an impossibly faint heartbeat. disturbing swirling cosmic gas.clouds of unborn stars wrapped around my interstellar ships. across time and space i creep. moving slower than the procession. and light bends round my face blinding me in streaming blindfolds and mouth agape. i am come. i am broken into infinence. too many pieces to collect and label. this one goes here, that one goes there. but from my rubble, from my unmade self, the bees, the furry bumble bees climb out from under. i am no pollen and i can only remember honey, i remember the spring milk and honey. but it takes too long and this is the only thing i can hear. the rhythm of your shovel taking limb from limb. the rhythm of your shovel, the spade crack crack cracking the ribs. plying a beating heart. with each mound that flicks over your shoulder, i exit in crimson ribbons, and if the trees take the time, if they take their time to knot their roots thru my threadbare sighs i will fill their boughs with trembling songs. i will hold the silver birds until their song, until their call shines, until it brings back lovers, until morning comes. until i can find my own words. i will i will i will, tip this i will top that, and when i put my arms underwater, and pull the lotus from its root, i will taste i will sup all the earth and her earthiness,i will climb into her arms as she sings her lullaby, and i will be her son.i will be her now.i will be her forever. and i will glow withnotes so green and golden.