1.

spin, pierce, flow.
gray heart and black love
burn together in a picture explosion.
exhaust me, gracious melody;
your amber tangerine tea has whittled me down into
a million little sharp rain smiles.
hear them.
curl and crumble around their chambered clay
for immunity's sake.
the sun's smoking petals will
spin, pierce, flow,
and burn together a picture explosion of
gray heart and black love.

there is a man on the docks who doesn't care about anyone, and he's free and alone and maybe that's what he needs. he was once a part of something and someone but he tore away, and now he is one proud old grandfather clock creaking in the sun scraped wind and his life tastes like weather: salt dried lips and leather.

but maybe he has tidal intuitions that can't be wrong because there's no one to correct him, and maybe he is only insane in relation to those who think so. maybe the bubble he's created can't shatter because nobody cares to penetrate it and he's been gone for so long that to go home would be to lose himself.

spin, pierce, flow.
gray heart and black love
burn together in a glass sand bonfire.
exhaust me, gracious melody;
your soft skinned new-ness and ardent pulse
have worn my perception down
from iron to rust.
hear them.
reel and ramble through their roaring mechanisms
to quench your famished spears.
the sun's smoking petals will
spin, pierce, flow,
and whirl together an hurried avalanche
of gray heart
and black
black love.