we have learned to live in our unforgiving bones —
and we have learned to live in our familiar blood —
and we are inseparable even in our ready death —
unless the mortal slit persists...       and lets us flow —
into a saturation of mourning

the morning, so desolate to Denver’s waking east
we wonder about the fire mist in the earliest sun,
facing the light coursing through its day...  as routine —

the elemental molecule that covers the blades of grass
waiting among the roaming swallows of Crown Hill,
masking the land and sinking their beaks
over a crematorium and upon my skin, water droplets
ripples on the lake’s surface, spinning forms of distortions
and luster while the nearby trees and stick thickets,
tolerates the restraint of cracking cat tail stems
and chimes at the same time, as the watch around my wrist

another morning, dejects as roadblocks, beyond the asphalt
of laid by marginal hands, generating a resinous tar
that slowly lengthens the newly laid street, and light
that scintillates upon the street on Balsam St. just outside
my apartment, starting the day with refined mounds of blackness
and morning condensation.

at night, among the rapidly spinning lights of red and blue,
the dizzying motion brings everyone living in our apartment
complex to a halt, the neighbors shake their heads and wonder
of curiosity flies about

the precocious feeling knows the cause of a tragic
overdose a lapsing situation, somewhere between
my stomach and the closeness of my desperate cells
                                 — Cellular Degenerative Disorder
                                 —City Detachment Disorder

my tongue circles the remaining residue we took
the night before and drove out our life source,
in one instant, other types of chemical ingestion
partakes a connection in our life that continues,
where our blood begins in a path that sustains
our outermost parts of the universe, as we watch
the Lyrid Meteor Shower at 3:00 am across
Balsam Street facing the chain link fence of ourselves

our bodies string whispers; delaying the speed of the rapid
descent or debris falling against the stars, looking at the man
lying in the bed next to me in an embryonic state, I remove
the foil and cover my head, I am a needless prick, a roadblock

sitting in the early morning beside him on the edge
of the bed, I think of my journey and form the concept
like duality, like the sun losing its image in the rippling
water at Crown Hill, then I think of my figure out
to the east and watch the horizon give a messy birth
                                    — us, in our bone, blood, and death