what tender caution line

what tender caution line we’ve set up around our circumstances
I hesitate to mention it, to inquire further
even if I did, could you define it
I am certain I would not want to hear
this relationship that we have defined
surely it would destroy it, this tenuous thing
I am not sure that I am content with this thing that we have
but I might prefer it, to what we might have to endure in its ruin
its not shallow
if we enjoy it
both of us, and surely we must if we keep finding ourselves here
to slip between the sheets
not anonymous, but not fully known to each other
we know the others name and occupation
where and how the other lives
how each of us occupies at least some of our time
but nothing of our pasts
nothing before the other
our shared experience is the only shared memory
my past in particular is hidden, so much that I do not even comment on its hiding
our circumstances are so specific that while we know much of each other,
surely we know relatively little
where would you want to eat if we were strolling through the city, as we’ve never done
do you enjoy walking streets at night at all
what kind of coat would you wear, were you not locked inside this house with me
how do you shop, quickly with purpose, slowly without intent
we’ve never gone together outside these walls
all the behaviors and mannerisms that would exist are a secret
if I did experience them, these things, whatever they are, would surely be insignificant
the way that you talk to clerks when checking out,
the kinds of scarves that you always look at, but never buy
these things are meaningless, and they have no bearing,
except in my unknowing of them
that they lie outside our experience of each other
it is their shadowy existence that is troubling, that threatens
again these are corners and distant hallways that should not be sought
what this is, whatever this is
has its limits

in the marshland

in the marshland
the wet soaks fifty feet out from any depth of water
the whole perimeter soaked into a muddy floor
in the chill our skin is a ruddy red and the earth is a ruddy brown
the dirt hard on the approach and then giving way into a sloppy surface
it sucks at the bottom of our shoes
the landscape is wasted in a way that would be unremarkable
except that it is so desolate
and our presence could be the first to break its loneliness in years
this is what is remarkable, the discovery of this land
that it’s colors and contours are ours to name
we will never dip our feet in the water, the shade of a fever, a contagious sickness ready to spread
but the shore, the slope where the trees grow sparse enough to pass through holding hands side by side
this is our land, to conquer and make our own, its history will be our secret meetings
the long bent stalks at the water’s edge are the color our memories,
are whatever color we remember, when we remember this
in our futures, which will be separate, surely
this is not the story that begins a long history, one that will be imparted to others, couples, children
this is the whole of our story, the afternoons and evenings here in this clearing,
the long walk towards and returning,
a walk too long for conversation to fill entirely, there will always be silence
that silence, or near silence,
the light rasping of wind through nearly bare trees,
tiny branches scraping against each other in the heights above,
the rustle of leaves, perhaps a lap of water, more imagined than real,
this the music and soundtrack of this memory
the memory which will only be conjured at random in the future,
bringing a light smile, but no further emotion
there is little substance to these outings

deafeating repetition

defeating repetition lies under the malediction repetition puts you under dig another then youre done no more repetition

we know the names we do not know the names any better we can point and call and declare the substance of a thing define its borders shape size density we know the names of the things which we can not conquer except in their naming we own their existence a thing is not a thing without a name

this house that has stood generations the sum substance total of my father’s father’s father and his wife and daughters their lives and livelihood the sweat tears and blood their lives are the marrow of this soil the feed of the grass growing beneath my feet and their flesh and bones have this purpose what of their thoughts and wishes these feelings unnamable everything that lacks a name lacks a life here now the insubstantial remains so ethereal the atmosphere that imbues this horizon with a feeling different from its color different from its science its density and attributes

this bone tunnel through which we travel the words are flames that burn the kindling of your thoughts I extinguish them with my flesh the physical world dampers the mental plane the wash of oceanic feelings the ether floating above and beyond your simple grasp to catch and feast upon the conquer