Poems from kumabooth
You're sitting there reverousto the brim with something that feels like seventeenyear cicada sleep, andgray turned goldripping through...
Let me impart thevery graces of breathin permanent linesall down the arches of all your self,all your branches.
Pale morning coming inwindward edge of precipice,window small and loved,soft hillocks and valleys,your sleeping form.
We light each other with heavenly fire, neverletting the flameslick anything thatis not temporal.
The grasses yellow long or gold they leanover universes small and everythingI saw each time you lay upon it in the lightjust remember you...