I. Pando, Quaking

I chase the words through labyrinths
that open out (almost imperceptibly) into forests
then plains
then oceans
then sky
and sometimes it’s so hard to say -
but there is constant music
in buildings
then plains
then oceans
then sky
compelling sounds
(even in silence, so many sounds)
all the way around us
it’s never truly silent
(I think that’s what death is
and I can’t bear to think of that silence while I’m still alive)

this is the source of the river
this is where the water comes from
no matter how the land shifts in its sleep
this place will stay the same
(so we wander and meander
through lush night-time)

trees so overgrown with teddybearfruit, starcluster fruit,
and thick glass jars of lazy foxlight
that we have to duck
they hang so low and complicate our path
and obscure our view
and winding up and down
our way through opens and shifts and kisses us hello
and runs away with hands full and handfuls of birds (hello!)
at play in the fields of our lord
(whoever she is)
we are falling in love
and dealing in waves and walls that (most perceptibly) recede
when we want them to
(and where we want them, too)
and it’s all for fun
and there’s no end

think of it: the warmth of sunlight captured on film
electric feline stripes, train cars and cathedralspace humming inside of drums
spring (and summer) uncoiled, but winter just starting to compress
(we wait for blizzards to pitter-panther-pounce) ahaaaa
we open our mouths and out comes the roar of starlight
I exhale and whisper your name, and silver nitrate particles dance forever
on tiny paper windowpanes
you step into the frame and sing my name
and those syllables will be smiling at me (at least) until I’m gone
(and it’s already been so long since you sang that song)

repeated viewings
the horizon rises and falls like the chest of a sleeping baby
and the moon looks biggest when it’s close to her heart
but it’s all a trick of perspective
those electrons are so far away (sewing night and sky together so fast)
that we’ll never get to touch them
(whoever she is)
or ask if they have names
or know it when we’re finally burned up by the sun

vulpine: the river ribbons so inky dark across this land that
it must surely stain rocks and easels and little hands
so we’ll farm strawberries and violet shadows
and we’ll grow thirsty and find out for ourselves
I’ll dip my finger in that river
(or touch so lightly your chest and face and limbs)
and write down everything I can remember
every day (all the time eats all the time)
and honestly, I can’t tell the difference between what’s precious and sacred
and what’s not, anymore
but I know I was usually wrong
when I thought I could, before
I don’t want this feeling to be forgotten
and I don’t want to leave this land made mostly of memories
so we’ll pile stones and build fires and try to reason with the storms
as they roll across the plains
(strawberries, strawberries, strawberries, strawberries)

trembling giant
quaking glacier
a continent’s song
plucked so gently on a piano’s heart’s strings
I hope so much that there is no end

(clouds and seasons -
though plentiful -
move too quickly
as they roll across the plains

but the mountains -
kissed on every side by time and wind -
will be here long enough
for our purposes)