I heard silence today.
It was terribly loud, what it must
sound if all the yellow leaves
fell at once into an ocean.
We invert everything in air.
The anchor floats and the buoy
went straight to the floor. The sky
grounds me, coffee put us to sleep.
I only run in the middle of the night
he eats granola from the lid of containers
we're supposed to sip coffee
I hear from those little plates.
Our arrangement of veins was discordant.
Silliness caught up in my knuckles
and reminded me of things:
our travels back to Nashville,
our travels forth to God knows where
but cigarettes and IPAs fill spaces
for the boys growing beards with bongos.
Now I am uninterested in opening mail,
uninterested in unrolling newspapers.
I am not one for vessels floating in the skies.
I am waiting for air barriers to break into the pieces,
they wait to understand the weight
of everything, the most important part was trying
to put a jigsaw into a crossword puzzle,
7 down, four letters, but it was all too burdensome
and there was a sharpness.
We learned some things aren't meant to fit in lines
so why bother, we learn its cardboard edges
are too foreign for a greasy newspaper print.
Like oil and water, like pine on the damp sand,
like what you want and what you say.
The thing is switching languages might save you
but the hypnotist tells me the brain
doesn't know the difference between a lot.
We went into a sky, on a cloud with my neck
gaping and my fingers flat.
We traveled to a beach with white sand,
with perfect bodies we came to a mountain
I could move you. Up to an elevator
on the 7th floor I sit in a chair,
I shoot into skies and on this peak
I see stars that radiate white light.
I hammer through
a wall in my brain, us
hallowed humans
we live for things to eventually change.
Or else to pause this moment together.
Over pale ales we watched the lake
and nothing much else.
It was everything,
the bass singing like a cellist,
the back of the throat like percussion,
the sound systems were impeccable
frivolous with our hearts.
From Wall street to Clark street
a banjo strums but only in studio recordings.
I dream of pine trees on my ankles,
views like blankets below me
at the tree line the hail struck hard.
I dream of stages,
I dream of REM cycles
when it all moves on.
I am resilient to fighting.
Let us rest to a moonless light, to a silence
that screams softly into our collar bones.
Let us hallowed humans sleep under the stars.