small and inspired

There is a soft thing,

A whisper of leaves and trees which would shudder and


A glinted shiver off these aged curtains.

And again, there is a time

(larger than a second, smaller than


when I am alone and this small thing

takes the form of white skin,

kind eyes.

This man, he is

Nothing more than a thought of unrecorded brilliance— as the awakened thrill of figured vocals on the ear.

He is a ghosted figure, an open-ended vein

(though he is not yet leaking).

When he speaks, he is almost tangible:

Here. See this

Grass? These trees? Take these colors and



Take the sky and twist it for the flavor.

Under my fingers, these words,

He is breathing.