pretty

Grimwald smiles and you'll die
defined, disagreeing and divine--
all sick and no sleep, pretty
empty rollers sprinkling
glass in the drying granite slushing in
the sleet,
all
deaf ears curled ivory
roads foreign salted with fresh bile and sweat,
foggy from the furthest reaches,
slipping through beach breaches back
to boats across a map-shorn shore, ailing
for atlantis and beyond,
echoing in seconds after
with regrets alternating against every
long gone fast buck borrowed, spent, and lost

growth apart

give them the world and they'll want to walk it. 
she knows there's something
sad in the logic of a sonnet,
measured, steady-motion rowing
ghosts of hopes from whispering lips
in the weathered rhymes of wintery wits
long since buried in crumbling halls
and forgotten like their fallen fathers.

mental states

sleeve-rolling in the morning,
all hours put off,
strumming infinity's strings.
like oil black hair,
we softly get long--
spines soaking in seltzer,
absorbing their weight,
feeling time in their designs
and space.