The pastoral past passes through me like a passage of pressed flowers beating like a heart ; like wire ; like strings frayed ; like the unafraid rings of a tree expounding outwards ; like a drop on a pool, on a lake, on a bed of watered flowers spilling over the edge like a nourishment / like a nuisance / like a novelty read for the first time
August hands, and love // i cannot speak of how vast the love, how deep the chasm spills into all the empty spaces; how full you become when you begin to breathe // How all the pockets between your bones and all the chinks in your armor fill with oxygen when you let the carbon dioxide go ;; how all the spaces fill like capsized balloons floating in reverse / how gravity will lift you when you let it no longer be a grave; How August cloudscape will wipe across the shallow frame of your seeing eyes / how unearthed light will fall backwards away from gravity towards the upended trunk of the atmosphere exposing the earth’s rings ; like rings ; like trees ; like water droplets ; like angel breath on clouds // like circles within circles // upside down the light comes spilling through the center of the Earth ; the magma of your heart like a beacon
let words come like a fortune of grass stains ; i am a cupped heart still trying to catch light, still trying to photosynthesize;; always failing in patience, always working towards the right words to fill the right moment with the right grace, but sometimes i am just a little human and my boots are filled with rain and my courage is hollowing through my brain and the only response i have is a messy tumble of emotions that come seeping out between my teeth, and sometimes i try to breathe;; but breath is shallow when you don’t have a belly-full of trust in yourself and lungs are tiny when you feel like you don’t have the time to let them expand // but the illusion of nightmare dreamwork is just frame-work, is just a faded etch around the edges — the door is new, the door is chestnut, you can open it, you have hands. scratches, dings and whistles line the edges like a parade of decadent molding; brain frosting (things still frozen in the ice) still comes on top of every jerked-fear-rattle-response — but your trauma is not your structure, your house is more than wood, your parts are more than math;; you do not need to keep apologizing. you do not need to keep apologizing. you do not need to keep apologizing.