i wake

the dust of love's village

in my throat

                    a cartography of

the unlived

                 the past is

a suitable shoelace when

a secure belt is required

where have i been

drunk with the season i ignore

memory

chopped and stacked

in anticipation of the novemebering

                                                     (the illegible

script of rust,

the earth-seep of not-yet words,

stains...

            the tip of a finger

is a tenuous archive

i wake

the thorn of love's approach,

insinuated

reciprocity

erosion and calm

                           gated,

the heart is

opened-to-be-closed and

closed-to be-opened

and

where have i been

                   dust