déjà vu

sometimes i
ache
for the darkness,

turn my eyes
before the ocean of his
mouth

has d(r)ied
on my
lips,

remember
distinctly
the thick taste

of charcoal sucked
through the brown
slatted shades

that hid sunshine
from the secrets
inside.

there are scalpel-
scars still on
flushed flesh,

mirror-marks
of time that
doesn’t pass,

connective tissue
knotted into daisy-
chains of white tomorrows:

where waters whisper
of salt and rust,
there is yet

frost
to come.
i accustom

myself
to the sound
of endings, learn

to hold my hands
close(d). sleep
is the natural

consequence
of over-
dreaming,

an exhaustive
star-eyed
lumbering

collapse. sometimes
i think i
think too much.

deja vu

maymont tree

for you

my imperiled soul

suppliant

unfelled, infallible

unbounded delirium

strewn with withered strands of crepe myrtle

trespass where dreams run

over sodden fields of trampled turf

fall flat and hard

on unremembered white rock

and wake up accompanied

alone

again