among the torn silks of phrase

music: god help the girl
mood: misnomer

we stand for hours with sunlight gathered soft in the corners where our arms join, at rough paper edges of the beginning. this is the gesture of origin, these are the roots. there is so much that we don't talk about, like turning life into storybooks or the stenciled topography of growing into ourselves, still. i am pinning daylight to walls, chasing the beams through windows and forgetting about the woodwork. the wind sweeps & billows all afternoon against the concrete safety of us.

brunch: bare arms & legs and sips of black coffee, apricot french toast & apple slices & compote. the clicking whirl of bicycle wheels, laughter, the pickpocket stories. the open, vacant doors of the armory.

in the smallest clay pot is where the sage grows.

like the mechanical catch of into burnt hands;
how all the currencies are ordered and arranged:
miscalculating the moment you appear.