there were tongues between the plains of the moon, quivering there enough to catch

between the books on shelf , frayed edges of paper and bindings

to hold the lull

something other than what 

we have chosen

the empty plates crusted with food

gathered in sink. 

each one veined with cracks 

from where we come 

and the heavy barges float

 on slack seas waiting the morning if there is such a thing


not after what we said, the end yes

 we said that because to be more final 

is to be more plenty and then there is

 no such thing as start to finish and

people living perpendicular to what their minds set at  

birth and the infinite has weight, solid, tangible 


a bone pulled with gristle still attached

and we draw closer to something other than

when the-

 faucet stops and

we are ]

              just space

unfathomable to even the stars

and all



                            the peripheral