DA-Poetics

you say                          there are only two types of cold:                            in one             a shadow               hangs on your bones           like an old ghost      / the other is a color                     or stillness                                   or both. watch                     how the sky               bleeds                         into horizon:                         glacierborn               /                 oldgrowth /  the peaks cry                              carve a smile                         from the earth                                                           //////    at dusk  

I crawled from him toward her as if heat-seeking, or else sought by some bleak hand beneath bedsheets laying fingers on flesh beneath shroud. So she wore new linens when she sang to me: At whatever he aimed his spear - be it boar, wild cat, or fox - none would escape but that had strong wings

oxblood 40 oz / cook’s spoon / onyx moonboom/ goldlocks or old growth / who coos longly, / sort of bomb book / photon or / pop top, / ohms on loop: oh no / oh no / not on my clock, / orb or tomb / slow drool / look down / wrong foot / wrong cosm of stone / costly lot / 0 or 1 / on or off / for good.

I can barely lie under my skin anymore - too much life within.

Aristotle dropped his cannonballs from the Horologium; raindrops of stone, heavy and thunder-grey. Above, clouds drifted across a copper sky like feathers caught in a wind-river, wide and slow-moving, nearing the sea. Aristotle watched his cannonballs hurtle towards soil, and imagined Earth without airy medium. Perhaps there, a feather’s descent might be as swift. With nothing to copper the sky, or breathe, he’d suffocate under starlight in a storm of black hail and bird coat. Aristotle studied his cannonballs as they fell, under a copper sky, breathing. Hearing the huff of stone meeting soil, he reached for another, and hoped

i. There is not yet enough drink to change the night but still, hands and mouths explore past all edges of propriety; perfume faded on wrists and fingers in dark hair - helpless or hungry with desire, neither of you can say when it all feels too much like drowning. ii. The morning remembers the flash of teeth and cardinal red heat; silk unwound across skin - it wakes your soft-strung spine, "Again?" iii. You find yourself thinking of prism fractures cracking straight through the centre of jewels, a mad spillage of light and colour; lungs racing for air, she tells you she thought of violins, a violent thunder of perfect music. iv.

i once heard a poet say that it's been a good year if you've been to more weddings than funerals and connor, you made us think that it was gonna turn out okay. damn you for that. damn us for believing in something for once, we just a pack of lonelies howling at the clouded sky, just a runaway pickup speeding down the interstate, nothing to guide us home except for a guardrail and the hopes of finding warmth in something else. say this wasn't supposed to be a poem about grief, or the wind. but friend becomes snow and falls in the dead of winter and goddamn, how cold the still air can be sometimes. and here we are 4000 miles away, all

when we heard that they found mr. lewis hanging from the chandelier in the foyer, i hear my mother say something about selfishness. but i don't hear, or listen. say what a finale, say that's just how i'd go: in the lights, all cut glass and crystal halo kaleidoscoping around my head. just tryna make myself an angel. or anvil. come down heavy from a high place just to end up 6 feet below; say he must've been hanging there for days, just tryna hold up his own wieght. say how's that for a show? ain't we all just tryna mean something to someone? more than just the curtain draw, lights fade as we shuffle out, one by one. more than this. s