Tanner Brockwell

before leaving, before returning, in the chill morn, when the water falls, and in between the gushing steam. the crease, the flat fabric. the rush of wheels, the rush of wheels. the pounding pulse, a life stream so close so far. if that is all you are, if that is all you are. why torment. why sequence. but evenly, nay even supremely. curt in repose, a sleep that no one knows. still finds a path, the longings last. and ever then, or even ever when. i hold so close, yet — yet would let soaring find. the widening desert. the parched deep throat. would waters then, would waters then, falling quench. there is no duality, not if there is you.

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