falling rise, the spring of fall-

falling rise, the spring of fall-

the fruit it ripes to picking's pluck

& all autumnal harvest hands

uplift to greet you in your seasons.

& in the turning of the leaf &

fore the void of winter's chill,

we fill our barrels, jams to can.

bounties in our sunken pantries,

meat is salted in its larder

& all that's jerked and jellied is for keeping.

& in our sundry stores - all goods as these

are suched for morrow's making,

a laying on all tables

to feast our dark nights thru.

made did an unmaking do

what is done is done

&

what is made is made.

but what's been made can be undone

& undone makings make anew.

& in the doings not undone i've did

& do again, i'll do.

& in the making of undoing I'm

unmade by this making done. 

(& in the whitelight of evening

& darkness of our morns, all may

dare to gaze upon the sun

& stare.)                           

                            

& making done & doing made

& made the did to do again

(and again,)

again, i'll do.

the sin in medicine

the sin in medicine

is a well tongued pill

that throats.             

& all the sweet lacquer's

been had & renders 

powdertang & healingbite.

(soothed in a chemical kiss-
from pharmacist's tipping wrist

to the surgeon's pursed&puckered lips.)

the void

the void

at heart

is empty-

no matter

what

it says.

i am a hyphen

a bridge. a stile. 

the in-between of things.

i am connect & born to twain.

i am unspoken "and" & of ampersand.

w/o time's devoid of space,

& phrase-as-concept's hard on eyes.

i am nothing but a dash,

a line,

i am the broken word rejoined.

i prelude to the suffix-which-stands-alone.

i am the gift of undecided nomenclature.

i am an awkward sign of equal stance-

of father and of mother both,

or mother and of father.

the primacy of sequence rests on all of you who use me.

in remembrance of remembrance

in remembrance of remembrance

i will raise yesteryear's glasses,

& shed a single kindergarten tear

for each fallen leaf in all my autumns.
 

& i will forever look forward to

one thousand last-friday nights

& each and every weekend breakfast had.

& i cannot wait to see all those i've seen
& those i will not see again

& eagerly expect each sound already heard.

i am waiting for each brush of skin which i have ever touched-

& i'm anticipating one and all that has transpired.
 

& unto all that's been, i will raise yesteryear's glasses. 

(of which there are many)

by skinflush heatrush i

ope pheremonad to the verse

(of which there are many).
 

by hotgush bloodblush you

soup to be the trothe

(of which there are also many).

by lovelush lighttouch we

scattertale on multitudes

& rise up to the one

(of which there are more than many).

& from suchbrush we cull the cutting

& plant into a single earth.

in the nightsuit stiched

in the darkness we can

see to never touch

again the sun,

& yet it always

comes to always come.

in the nightsuit stiched

& thimble-threaded unto blood,

we can seem to never get the skin

& yet it always comes

to come when cloth undone. 

 in the godhead we who

seek to speak 

but not today in tongues,

always it comes to us again

in whispered drum.

& in the artless wail

of brokenhearts

in deeds ill-done,

there is a sun,

there is a skin,

there is a drum,

that's yet to come.