I can start with temazepam and end with a map of the world

the route is never direct

It looks for a journey that resembles a keyboard. Stuck. Watching purposely for multiple strokes before

it finds

its feet ensconced in        ablanketofsand

turkish towels pattern the night sky

reminding us all of local doctors

the kind that are too perfect to fabricate

My mind quickly skips to a soft patch. uneven. syrupy.

The afternoon light has angled its way to another tattered haired girl that speaks less. An irregularity of green stones remind me of wavy hips and olive lips

The strange rhythm of finikas have a noticeable replication in couples that have decided they no longer want each other

I have an idea                                                 extremes always end in beauty

stretched and folded into an incongruent geometry

professing brutality

fraying

congealed it returns as the edge of stairs and the simple architecture of your form washed by a dirty yellow cloth

and in my hand which is saturated by lime I rewash my words

The sound of diesel bleeds its beauty into the pores of night. It is a concrete wash of glaucous-blue that I have loved forever

extending from the tip of my fingers to the extremities of life

I would like to keep talking in silence until the last flower has hatched its spores into the earth below