What time is wasted?

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There are no oceans on the moon—
that’s why I want to swim in them.
Listening to a dead man’s voice,
willing to believe his lies.

We are never where we think we are.
I am eight years old…
sand in my teeth…
I hear laughing.

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Imaginary gravity

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on this rock
round this star
through space and time
I pretend to orbit you—
another hurtling speck

Here

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we have been down every corridor
each door we open
holds a different scene

but we have been
through it

we search for an exit
from this maze
a door to some new place

but it is endless
here

Declension of pain

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He is in love with someone’s eye.
She is in love with a prosthetic history .

He is in love with places he hasn’t visited.
She is love with feelings she hasn’t experienced.

They are in love with someone else’s loves.

I am in love with your sensibilities.
You are in love with a curator.

We are in love with something to be deleted.

Dream woman

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A woman floats through a dream.
In your dream, she dreams of you—
in hers, another floats dreaming through.

No more luck

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Another mirror in a thousand pieces—
sweep the floor clean,
leave the wall bare.

Another river

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The moon does not cast our shadows
into the water. The pebbles do not watch
our shadows drift over as we leave them.
That river has been dry for years.

Sometimes I’m still scared

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I might go blind
if I look at you too long.
It’s like I’m holding audience
with the most holy thing
my godless brain can invent:
you emit this religious kind of light
that touches me in the same way
the sun touches plants.

If Jesus himself busted in on this poem,
in an explosion of sunbeams,
rainbows, and neon angels,
I’d probably just glance over
at that whole dull scene,
put on some dark sunglasses,
apply some SPF 50,
and then turn straight back to you.

Taupiri’s warning

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The light abandons us
to another night.
Tree tips become membranes:
Sky and Earth share skin.
Ink mists gather:
blue blood bleeding
into black horizons.
We fold senseless
into it all:
a boundless origami
of forest and river,
their creatures and their filth.
Hills and mountains rise:
Igneous whales
from lava oceans beneath.
Up turns down,
and inside, out.
Another cataclsym:
the void reclaims us.
Do what you can now:
The light will not return.

Pronoun cemetery

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I was thinking of a place the other day
Somewhere that you and I might go to lie
with all the rest of us: him, her and they
Under should, would and could we’d die
with modal auxiliaries, buried deep away

Remaining then, just infinitives:
no past or future tenses left
to put conditions on things to give
No one around to feel bereft:
“Without your love I couldn’t live”

Plainly now just, “love to live!”