Golden Fleece

It becomes hard to breathe,

As if my chest walls

Resisted

The intrusion of more volume.

It is known,

My metronome sways slower than

The standard,

Which causes pause

To those listening for life by standards.

It becomes questionable if I am alive

For a full moment

It becomes obvious, this is my restful state

That alarms professionals of standards 
and not enough.

It was by the elimination of blur,

 the rolling together of static

and the burying down of heart that dams

persistence through rivers and veins.

The flow of water and words,

wind and blood run around without reason.

I should be dead,

They all said without saying anything solid,

Like stones and bodies

To remind us of sinking feelings and roots,

Settling and silt.

It was the iron 
will and heavy hand of world

carried just under the skin and cages. 


Jean François de Troy [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Simple sunset sought

This is not life-it is living
hot for a time
wet for a while
until salt only remains...

the ocean swallows us
wholeheartedly we wait at
her ledge at sundown
remixing our urge to merge

in gold lights flecks flicker
a flame bathed in warmth
dazzling its prisms by hint
of change for photophores


Photo credit: By United States Navy [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.