i find it here
folded small
inside of paper wrapped
inside of scripture bound
unravelled by the rain.

this was a promise i made
at eighteen or so
clapped by the wood
birds rising in huffs of smoke
the wood you would sand
into a desk in secret as a gift
to make me promise
that i would
keep writing.

so here i am, years later,
caught in a rainstorm of
this is who i am:
snapped by a photograph of a waterfall,
the blanket wrapped around me tight,
light clipped still in the brashness of wings,
tree stance, the maelstrom of cotton and ink,
it is a promise i made in my youth.

now, i stain myself with ink.

the ink moon delightful.

the ink of the sun delights more.

the peeled fruit of sun inside of the sun,
writing songs, psalms, poems, dialogs,
diatribes, rhythms, and shake.

shake me from my dappled dream.
shake the sun inside of the sun
to wake.

draft 1