the ocean in rain is rain

Paper is again my preferred tablet, and I have shoveled my laptop aside. Cinched. There is a root trembling in the bedrock, and it says, Trash the need to explain the self. Enjoy being in your life. Work the teeth of myth. A pendulum, it is noiseless and it swings from self to self, locking and unlocking, in swift wafts.

"Now" is a swath, a frayed tapestry of crushed forest floor cherry blossom, sucking in the pink perfume. Silence from someone with a hammer-heart, he is locked, forever. I continue to care. I only hope to muffle hammers.

Learning to dance with a bird who doesn't request explanations, but does ask "What is poetry?" or "Have you ever been in love?" (perhaps only once or twice, truly?), or "If you were a mixed drink, what would you be?" It is easy, and it doesn't sheet me. I am not in the business of technical love, not now.

Winds warping immensely. Burning rose and dry sage oils. Feeling food again, daily tangelos and large apples eaten on the street, fistfuls of parsley, a long walk every day, walking very fast, musculature of the world. The cats get milk now, and I think I'm getting crow's feet. My body's surface, it is shifting, flattening in places, and the interior is a dark cool crystal.

It is called a black 'sea' of roses. For a black 'ocean' is weight. Ocean is rain. Ocean in rain is rain. The rain (the ocean that's coming down) is soundless too, her charm nullified in that that night no one is around, she's smoking a cigarette. Graceful dipping her legs stretched down from a chair in night. Rain 'at' night is that black ocean around blank with nothing but waves. The Euphrates River is the forest's choppy black waves that are not in water.