As Many Will Fall

 

 

tumbling for you from afar as close-up.

They will rewrite your dancing form like a

proper magical spell on all their maddest days,

using the branches of cherished trees dipped

into the trapped wells of certain hosts of 

perfectly punctured stars, and those pin-strokes

 

shall forevermore become the colors

of their anointed dreams. They won't notice

you getting taller or older or wise

or less present in the wind like the rest

of us because you'll be as surely memorized

as any prickled over poem 

 

ever might be. That is their own sorry

scrapbook to have to deal with. Sometimes these

little things get mass produced and start a

lot of silly arguments among the

men and a few women about the artistic

nature of beauty—what it does

 

to the intellect over time and how

it so neatly trains the emotions to

swell and blubber about like stranded fish.

We all want to return to the sea, but

without fear, but I'm afraid that only

happens when you truly forget your heart's true desire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bonus:

 

 

The Wind Wasn't So Much

 

spinning on our faces

as calling from inside  

our cutting, twisting hearts.

We could see the heavy

newly formed sailing ships

 

were inevitable

to bump into all our

best laid plans to fall in

love. No matter how long

it took them to discover

us all through the night

 

they would eventually

bring a sickness to

our sky-filled souls. Someone

would not be leaving us

behind, but one would, in

their gathering, breaking

 

walks forever, the us

that we had made like a

beautiful wheel out of nothing but

raw sweet air and nothing

else. I'm way too tired now

to try and make this sing

 

any louder for you

than this one foolish bird

already in my hand,

but it's a true song, I

swear, even if the words

mess up the meaning. I

 

never wanted to see

you swim away like that, so completely

given over to waves,

but I understood how

those hills and crests visioned

you in themselves, because I wanted

 

your splashing sounds more than my own

sprouting life wanted my

own running away dreams and sorrows

to take me fast to tomorrow's

sleepy shore of

hurried memory too .

 

The wider world I guess needed

you like some kind of miracle

rain. The only

trouble with that story

is how it left me without

any water for

 

the rest of my wide open

days, but there are tears

still to be had. That's what

I hear anyway late

in this moon's fog, the patter

on your silenced seat.