the snow falls.

the way the nights go, i think, perhaps it is time for running, shoes and concrete. something about the way the leaves are falling, in my mind, along the hudson. june, june, there is no rain.

shoes and concrete, shoes and concrete. something cut out of me. maybe somebody knows what i mean.

we don't walk this way anymore, they tell me.

the sweetness of night air kills. slow sweet breath. sweet breeze kisses on my cheeks, the way i can't let anything else. sometimes we know the water comes from the heart.

come running with me, i want to say. i can't. my feet are tired. i am tired. dream walking. how many hours until morning?
-not enough. and too many.

somebody must know what i mean, but berryman is dead.

they say, listen to your mother, but i know mothers are often wrong.
what they should say: never give away the heart your mother gives you. you will never get it back, and it will kill you.


-


the time traveler has no idea of anything, except of her own happiness. all photographic ink. blues, and skies, and so much flowing dark hair. but she is not a woman.

may is dying but somewhere, the trudging in february snow. what are you carrying? why are you still cradling the cracked airlessness in your hands?

go to sleep.
i can't.

i can't. shams and shambles. i don't need a new house.
i would never tell my mother. i would never tell anyone. if only it would stop seeping.