Broken Lines

In the morning I trace the lines
of blanket wrinkles recounting
the sleepless hours

and disappointment blossoms in
the gaps of their disconnectedness
marking the absence of
meaningful constellations
and the emergence of a void
that swallowed potential ideas


Words are unbroken
but the chain is locked up
in the attic of misunderstood distance
once polished glass now milky, blind
windows to the soul
behind layers of dust
treasures unburied, still unfound
letters dissolving, unread
the chain of words turning into a snake
quietly slithering away
disappearing under disused furniture


A dream of poets in space,
a song
of painting the universe:
an excursion gone wrong,
a fatal crash flashing across
the story halfway through

and poets learned to navigate
coordinates in strange new terms,
the singers croon to cable sparks,
painters smeared in machine grease
appear from the ship’s bowels
giving thumb-ups to the ragtag crew:

disillusioned but stubborn artists,
officers with broken bones;
the ship half gone,
writing a story twice as intense


I want to climb into the trees that are your palms, a cat slinking from wrist to fingertips, cradling words of summer into the sun-baked wood of hands holding books like torches in sacred crypts, delighting the long shadows with whispered tales of warm wind rustling through the hair-fine leaves dusted in afternoon gold.