i would not want to see your face again

your sad cheeks and your windy hair

under the hood of your jumper

under the sunny rain.

when your face opens to my face

i am stuck to it

and i would like to eat 

my toast in the morning

without getting crumbs on you

though you didn’t seem to mind

a little heap of brown grit

on your chin, and sometimes

soymilk, coffee, and even a spoon.

well, until you do. slowly you 

remove your glasses and put down

your tea, small seismic disruptions 

of the morning routine. i peer at the 

book review intently. the windows

shatter sending glass fragments and 

coffee all around the room.

i keep my eyes

on the paper

but that was the way to another life.
she wakes as the founder of a still
rocky plain. her coat flowing, her hair
moving like eel grass, or seaweed
in a shallow cove. drifting in and out
of rooms into the open air.
she seems to rise and fall with
the wind, swaying further, and
further away each time.

o the things i drive her to, and
try to call her back from. my thoughts
always floating like dark balloons
and my sleep deep and fecund.
she arrives every now and then
to help me, reappearing like
an avatar. a naked avatar, laughing
and obscene. her body sunk in a green
wrinkle of seawater, lit by a huge moon.

full moon over oslo in the middle of february, and
i have so little poetry in me that i’ve settled for writing about
writing instead, and how it bums me out. i wanted someone to come here to
show me a holy something; a peach or a lilac branch,
give me permission to think of bears and misbehave for a while.
i can’t do it by myself. i mean, i’m ¼ genetically kite i think, i need to be
carried and dragged and propelled and so on. right now i seem
to have caught on something (i hope it’s a mint tree) and i wish
more than anything to have inherited more kite-grace.

thinking about having a peat bedspread (i’ve even googled that
the other day) makes me remember the way i felt when
i put my feet into the marshes, and feeling that memory makes
me all fuzzy inside. it’s a scandalised kind of happiness, you know,
like shit, did we just get away with that? at the same time
i sit here wondering if there is a poem in fingerprints and
the shadows of the moon. some kind of b&w, 2d poem, that’s
embarrassingly opaque & beautiful. it will be weird but trust lives by its own impossibilities. 
it will be so weird.