green glass door


if you’re going to
wake it up, you
better know how
to put it to sleep;

opening the cage at
the back of the
throat, setting that
lone bird free.

the silhouette of might:
fueling to felling to
feeling to steeping
to flying

high above the gravity
of being gone, spun hard
and too soon from
a bamboo neck.

waiting is harder.
a long spin of
need; of wanting every
thing to matter again.

in the mean time
it is the
that matters.

unable to use energy
to turn it into
just yet;

holding onto the
objects we have
touched every day
for years

because they are ours,
because we have owned them
and moved them
and made them

while breathing
in the
tall silos
of time:

sitting perfectly
still, silting at galaxy
speed inside the eye of

for ever;

inside the utter silence
of your self while
teeth like
tomb stones

take the wear and weather
of days, the stark
white bite sharp against
heels and eyes.

never stop hunting the human spirit.

moving forward this
giant chess piece of
life, this organ body

holding, playing, splaying
light and music and weeping
over nights of
confessional hills:

trees forgiving

something galloping

spoons clinking

flowers stretching

cards shuffling

green glass flying

grass whispering

bones bending

will crying

peaches summering.

how close to the cliff,
how huge the moon,
how empty and full the
song of hope.


Paintings by Olivia Santiago


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