stream of conscious | hands in the garden

she flashes queens
to show who
leads

with
courtly will

finds us flower
framed

and mounted for
the masses,

gossip at the
gallows

shrill
and hollow,

sinking to my knees,
in lethargy-

not
to appease.

rock, paper swan tongue slithers
into folding legs
of scissors

silver blinding hordes
in corners

numbed by grind of
mind traps
mice..

arch and writhe selves
out of vice.

i’d have posed higher
questions

knowing what i can’t
see now,

do you still read clouds
out loud

or
call doves
to your dreams

and if so,
how?

midday meeting
friendship workload
right on time
for fake
it,

not taken for a
real boy-

all
strings,

salt drips
thru heart’s bricks,

inhale
raw throat dusk,

nothing floods
the well

but echoes become ash
once heard.

drying under
moon,

can’t spot our
reflection

where we were painted
in the sky with
spilt milk,

coasting into
dawn,

in search of
graceful
song

to lament the
downed sky
we both
built.