Tripping down

The staircase,
a great yawning
ready to swallow us
as we blithely scamper on
to the next and the next
only sometimes
shadows changing shape
and air becoming thick
with our own sweet decay,
something for the next
explorers to step over.

Song of Scissors

Walking into the curvature of a spoon
with a head full
of wildflowering gypsy rhythms.
Noticing all that makes up the spine
of feathers and other wanderers.
Make the trip move like rain through sea,
tantalizingly becoming one
while staring straight into an open mouth-
devoured or spoken (same thing really).
When in the notes these drifts
become dunes, nothing is cut away
but layered until greys and blues
twirl over swimming hips.
Trapping only ideas.
Allowing the truth of continuing ruin
to become something new.

Ever carefree

Was it really the same
without years or unimaginings
filling the space meant for touch
instead of electric ocular connections?
Were we ever carefree?
What’s different now?

We recognized stark walls
that lined our route
and didn’t care;
there were no uncrossable boundaries-
we just carved holes to walk through
when we couldn’t climb.