December 23, 2016

no more the dry metallic sun
or the red haze burnt
nor skin heavy as earth
when the wild skirmishing dust
whose cry is familiar to me
finds rest on my tongue
I will sink into this spire of wind
and this dune, the powder of my blood,
till there's nothing left to wither
but the silent uncoding dark
whose face
  is familiar to me

December 2, 2016

a violent elision—
this change of color
this second bloom
the whiteness racing
against pure blue
—you might too
with mute vigor
chase morphoses
in the silver-marrowed air
or! waking
gather to yourself
in its bright extension
the time-lapse of another
parting
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