together, we're near, i know we are, don't go

it must be you

building a fire in the corner of my room

to warm my feet as they sleep in the cold

of an open window and endless stars

it must be you

who holds my breath steady

catches it and draws the next one forth

from these lungs that seem fit to freeze 

under a night of endless stars

i feel your return

i feel you between my shoulder blades

dave talks about Maranatha as an ever-present reality

and it is, i think 

i think i think too much

a sky of endless stars 

should reveal not fear, but promise 

and a dad whose tattoo matches mine

should reveal not fear, but promise

the stars can fall from the sky

but as long as they come into my room

through that open window

hang from the ceiling for a while,

long enough to swim in

i’m okay

we’re okay

POURING

it’s snowing at the border.
i’m wearing my bulletproof vest
so i can squeeze you this tightly, you said

it's snowing on my mountains

i’m pouring an eye into the lens over my shoulder
the only weapon you need, baby

it’s snowing in my room.
paper snowflakes on the floor
from 8:30 pm, and 10:30 pm, and 11:30 pm, and 3:30 am, and 4:30 am

i’m pouring my eyes into your son, your son, your son
and he’s walking away

is this who i am?
to give all i am so as to show another who he is?
is this who you are?

the desire of the nations —

A Consideration for the Generals and Politicos of the World

perhaps, in a single bike ride,

as much can be accomplished

to move the face of the earth toward maranatha

as can be accomplished

in eight hours

in an office.

ELSEWHERE (BREAD-TH)

windswept you are.

my fingers swing out the window, hinging wrist.

layers of clouds,

I know which ones you'll ride on.

the scattered ones like our cliffs.

clouds that seem -- reachable --

rain tried to stop us, and lightning, 

but the roots of our mountains 

are at the bottom of the sea.

stormsoaked you are.

you stand at my door

and knock.

build me a room in your father's house.

tuck away with my family in the mountains and mesas.

admire streetside magnolias as they bloom.

admire brooke as she studies them on skin.

and where will we be when the sky shudders?

will the same stars fall on us?

will we spin in the rain

dance in time

apart, together?

THE WORLD WAS NOT WORTHY OF THEM

I used to remember why.

what to chase, exactly?

micro naps at stoplights.

attached, now, like this?

    like so, like so; --

an expanse that can only be smothered by the dusting touch of my fingertips. 

far too much room to breathe. 

never only in one place. 

see, I’m writing this on the highway. 

my eyes are tired.

my nose is tired.

my ears are tired.

my hands are tired.

my tongue is tired.

but could we dove away in a sand cavern somewhere?

you and I, with strawberries and aranciatas.

living in caves and holes in the ground.

AS IF

holding your hand through all of this --

holding your hand.

the immeasurable amount of peace that comes

when i am with him.

laptop to journal to body --

the frame of our trinity.

like windshield wipers somehow.

you are violent, dear, and i like it.

building sandcastles while we could be building bunkers --

while you're building your mansion --

we use sand, on purpose;

it's what we do;

we build together,

it's what we do.

as if it exists.