There is nothing and everything in tranquility. Tranquility exists in well-oiled machines and in nature, running cycles smoothly and without reason, just running for our enjoyment or observation. We are incomplete cycles, completed by moments that we think complete us and fully completed only in our death. This is what makes us so beautiful and horrible.
On summer days
and the heart gets colder,
we sit and dream silence.
Together now with no return,
there’s a whisper in our names.
Some day will follow sleep
the ebb of tides not so near
for fear of snow or
drifting, drifting away.
It was a hazy thing in the middle
of day and night, caught by
I was launched by
slingshot memory of the kiss
Colors blur under
fluttering skylights. Haggard
window-washers sweat into soap buckets,
drink whiskey with stars at night,
and remember ancestry in dreams
that fade with dull headaches in
baby watercolor sunrises.
So much lies in the rise and fall of a breath, of a sun, of a nation