August 15, 2018
Ingredients: fire, frontier, coyote, cucumbers, dust
Shift: loco-crepuscular
in this dream I trade my hands for your tongue. sometimes they fit and other times you don’t know who the hands belong to. the point is it was sunset. the point is sometimes disappearance means sitting alone with everyone you’ve ever loved. the blue removed. the crackle and howl bent together and held, like a prayer. these hands, this tongue, we were born to juggle suffering like ghost apples. the dire and delicate purpose of now. I think of you when I eat cucumbers. your eyes like sea washed grass. your eyes, lacewings on waterfalls. is it time to wake up rivers? we. were. born. for. This.
