White Birds Are All Around

There’s a space right here in which everything is awake.
I’d like to wear shades to cover my eyes but the sharpness of this world's addictive, and
so what
if the humidity of claustrophobic comfort divides the lines from time to time, dancing like the water of our constitutions, cause that’s okay, its all the better when it goes away and her legs dance,
quiver slightly as she walks, and his hair is ringed with tips of fire, a halo of gentle reversals.

Behavioral stones that spill from the mouth in embarrassing moments. Your stones are stars and mine
are the boredom of self-effacement.
your stones are stars that you hold so light
dainty in long fingers that wither to the tip of a branch and the clear
air of unadulterated control. (compassion is everything).

The distinction that permeates good conversation, books
of nostalgia that seep in tangled lines, underlying every utterance.
On one side of the world it constricts in gross observation, but on one side
it’s the whistle of unassuming affection, erecting
monuments clear
up in the silent air, awake with the blindness of silent landscapes,

In and out of a white that is nothing, glorious, everything, birds
that shuffle all around, shuddering comfort into abrasive chests,
wary of connection: light monument of the lines that fortify our motives,
awakened from the sedative
forgetfulness of self-involvement.

And then I said the fact I’d been unable to say:
“I’m sorry,”
and I watched her lips give way into smile and her heart
unconstrict as the birds shuffled about.


[Her face is the deep ocean.

Her face is not the deep ocean.
Her face is the grey sky.

Her face is a blind alley.

Her face is her touch is her breath
Is her fingers is what remains
After the laughing is over.]