blue of a contusion, gold in scattered ribbons
feel something real that is not another
echo of myself

surprise is never really surprise
nothing arrives from nowhere
everything comes from some place

where my bridge
meets your jaw’s slope
lips soft between ridge

from the comfort in the many small
yet bright windows
the alternating colours of the terrace stars

we’re half-awake on this train
some of us going home
most hustling

we’re thin. and taut.
slender strings desperate to retain
all that is moving away

term of venery:
a ruckus of bros.
the garden as highway:
fox eyes, badger’s eyes
reflecting in the dark.

a raven with something red in its beak,
three running deer causing a fourth

it’s mostly just me
and you
and the season

but more exactly so
convergent infinity

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