(Let's measure this in) Metric.

Radiohead, meet The Smiths

Cover of The Smiths' The Headmaster Ritual

Broad Leaves

In the morning light bittersweet kissed my hair

Shedding slowly like the feathers from the barn owl I used to love
Molting seems too ugly a word to describe the release

We used to play with Stories in the tall grass
Like finding syllables in seed pods, you'd say

How perfect

Untitled 3

The piles of heavy rocks stood tall in the open field where they fell in love. Stacked solid against one another, the weight changes their shapes and things. Sometimes when the light falls strangely and foreign against the places he once thought were familiar, shadows and mists and old leaves tell stories that taste right. And safe.

If you fall quietly into the wool, there's a chance he'll find you there again. Because when it's silent, there's nothing more to do than look for one another. It's hard to know what lives underneath that soil now. I suppose someone along the way has just learned to assume his field and grass and consistent expressions have been forgotten.

But I think if look closely, you'll see that the view from here isn't bad. The city below, where the sheep and cicadas and stalled cars wait for the signs of him again. Emerging from deep within the shoveled sand and snow, in our city bed, a world is left unsettled by unsettled by unsettled.

And and and

This is all I want. Slipping into sleep with the weight of your should on mine until the sun rises and sets again. Soft cells sinking. Ink drying. And praying for something placid.


"I am a strange loop" Arms & Sleepers