09-11-2025, 10:16 AM
just messing around with it. a bit rusty. poem begins... below.
...and confused ourselves in the difference.” this is how the year starts: an untimely zone-in, too
late to reconcile itself with meaning and too early to let it pass far out of mind; a whirlwind of
unregistered overwhelm leaving nothing but deep ache and a quiet acceptance of the same quiet-
in-crowd that leads to self-reliance. in the mountains if you fall you will not make a sound. we are
talking about death in an alivespace, at the start of the rest of our lives, and we cannot steer the
conversation away from it. the beavers made that but not this, this openness of our field of vision,
this vision of a field so open the pondhum is eerie. i feel absence under my feet, little else but
wildflowers. three girls on a log. enlightenment, i’m finding, is how the long walk starts, and how
it ends, and for the most part most of the parts in the middle. in the middle our burdens are discussed
over rockhopping. dip me in a whirlpool of barefaced curiosity. this is how it starts: you are told "you
deserve to thrive”; to hold hope close to your chest, a ratcheting cramp in your calves, to lift your
eyes to the mountains and breathe in the construction dust and understand yours are not the only
feet to have stepped where they land. we are each other’s harvest, each other’s business, each
other’s magnitude and soul. sonic burst in my central cavity. climbfear in my knees. wordplay at its
finest–a doodled sunflower in the margins of my notebook still turns itself towards the citruslight when
given a fighting chance. nothing is as it should be except the laughter buzzing in my nailtips when you
and i floorsit. i would walk before you, and let you pass, and tell you i am not afraid to tell you all the ways
in which i hold you dear. i would write a thousand poems to bargain the ache of this alonespace away.
but again, for the most recent night in a long endless chain, i think: how may i hold myself dear? i think:
when will the love show, and when will we be sure of it?
...and confused ourselves in the difference.” this is how the year starts: an untimely zone-in, too
late to reconcile itself with meaning and too early to let it pass far out of mind; a whirlwind of
unregistered overwhelm leaving nothing but deep ache and a quiet acceptance of the same quiet-
in-crowd that leads to self-reliance. in the mountains if you fall you will not make a sound. we are
talking about death in an alivespace, at the start of the rest of our lives, and we cannot steer the
conversation away from it. the beavers made that but not this, this openness of our field of vision,
this vision of a field so open the pondhum is eerie. i feel absence under my feet, little else but
wildflowers. three girls on a log. enlightenment, i’m finding, is how the long walk starts, and how
it ends, and for the most part most of the parts in the middle. in the middle our burdens are discussed
over rockhopping. dip me in a whirlpool of barefaced curiosity. this is how it starts: you are told "you
deserve to thrive”; to hold hope close to your chest, a ratcheting cramp in your calves, to lift your
eyes to the mountains and breathe in the construction dust and understand yours are not the only
feet to have stepped where they land. we are each other’s harvest, each other’s business, each
other’s magnitude and soul. sonic burst in my central cavity. climbfear in my knees. wordplay at its
finest–a doodled sunflower in the margins of my notebook still turns itself towards the citruslight when
given a fighting chance. nothing is as it should be except the laughter buzzing in my nailtips when you
and i floorsit. i would walk before you, and let you pass, and tell you i am not afraid to tell you all the ways
in which i hold you dear. i would write a thousand poems to bargain the ache of this alonespace away.
but again, for the most recent night in a long endless chain, i think: how may i hold myself dear? i think:
when will the love show, and when will we be sure of it?
