When I look down at the floor,
that concrete level,
and you catch me swallow,
with the gaze of your eye,
I am not hiding nor ashamed,
yet learning how to support some memories,
and tear down other thought.
I had gathered many flower petals,
to freeze them into a frame for this spring,
but I watched them melt together,
forming a sticky web of past-ripe color,
and it was good to move on.
Drawing images in my head,
hurriedly moving on, blurring into a moving-picture,
rarely coinciding the conception with its physical manifestation,
and so my thought, kept in secret, often dies silently.
Commonly, I try to fit myself, my very consciousness,
into a space too small in my imagination,
some choked spiral or a receding square keyhole,
these moments have nothing conceptual to stand on (emotivated).
Perhaps that is my ceiling with art,
a moment cannot be captured,
so much as restated, retold,
to experience it, it must be lived.
Collared and fly-high,
you reared the Spring with a deft twitch,
fighting against the clear sky,
eating time as a dog gnaws on a bone.
What hounds you is the gray freckle in your head,
the grey spike in your eye,
tailing your ambitions,
fretting the brow of high thought.
Like a plane,
buzzing around war and disaster,
my mind perceives crystalline fractures,
making not one loop,
but many, intertwined to confuse their trails.
I cannot retrace my steps,
rather the swoops and smears
describe my temper,
and I quickly lose specific memories,
to breath and know the atmosphere.
