FOR S. ; AUGUST ; BEFORE THE STURGEON MOON
It’s like have i ever been awake? <—how it feels to wake up in the wake then do it again. I stop, record the bird screeching on my phone two leashes suffocate my palm. Who knows this bird? Who knows her by her song? In the movie an algorithm wrote the sexy young scholar goes blue in the bed. Touch arrives confident as water. The muscles of my eyes pull inwards. Lately, the itch. Lunation —> balsamic. An empty chair at the table for a traveler. When was it ever not this perilous. I fall asleep with my tongue out in the dog toys. Filling bottle after bottle i water the annuals in borrowed pots. Lettuce bitter from bolting; i grieve the harvest. Future is a theory. The moon tonight is the warmest face in the world. I crush the brittle sage between fingers then huff. As if we know more or better now than we ever did before. Flesh of oyster. Love is barbed. Slack tide.
newcastle 8/7
XO
AD 