Walk with me.
Meet the wall.
The wall is the end.
Deep, dense,
charcoal melt into
rusted metal door black,

Roots are steps in soil. Steps to rise
upon. Steps attended by dark life, earth being
what roots must dig into. To bury these seeds
knowing they will rise again. To bury hands
in rich dirt knowing things will grow well here.
To bury one’s face in a bouquet of lilac without
allowing one blossom to touch your skin.

every flake falls so easily
so many and each one an individual

everything it covers becomes beautiful
it’s impossible to describe these crystals
no more than fear, elegance, truth
bare as you can see
not white — blank

I hope it isn’t a surprise
I practiced every day, another
unsuccessful attempt, the next morning
recognition of failure, and resolve
to try to do a better job today

Speak not of proof, 
tell me not your base of data,
rhythm of algo,
expose of ponentials,

the wine bottle on my finger
is no indication of clumsiness
but memory, as in, I need to know
where this wine is; it’s not
an indication of a drinking problem,
it’s a celebration of everything,
how nothing exists without love,
plus, the dilemma of extracting
tender parts of yourself from delicate