final

in the sweet indecision of almost spring,

nearly summer, i saunter through 

the silver silt hanging grey in the air.

through this light film of opacity, there is

blurry vision, cut through only for one

crisp, filled to the brim

moon, shining through these sugary webs

of cotton candy, this low hanging night sky.

i spent the day indoors—sleep filled

shorts and hands on my skinned over ribs,

too late in the no longer morning. later, the air

tasted, even to my eyes, and after, lingered

in the twist of my hanging down hair as

i wandered back towards a pile

of plays, a list of former habits.

[in my latest lack of dreams (dark matter,

thick sleep), i thought i may have, for the

first time, seen with the absence of

language a desert words flooded with

that color of that one band

of light that always spills over the line

of the horizon—light blue, cobalt,

anything but navy, i'll never know 

what to call you—after the hills below

have fallen into one uniform black shadow.]

tonight i am contained in the shell of a mahogany

egg and the air is too tense to taste, too moderated

to tell the season. it is full of

wood panels, turmeric lights, the thick

heat of inside earth. i want to crack myself open

and see the words spill out in different sized letters--

the syllabi and assignments, the untrained thoughts,

the would be ledes, the ones that someone

once liked (not me)--mixing together into indistinguishable,

racing to fill the plate of tonight’s white moon

yellow with a broken up yolk.

dls