"...there can be no independent reality known as 'time', as if actants were driven forward by some temporal elan or duree, some flux of becoming distinct from their total reality here and how." - G. Harman

If we had no other words, or breath to take,

I would still speak to you. I feel the break of moments

And the end of lines, where each one stood the way

it could in perfect silence,

Unapproachable, mute, the dream of a memory

perfect and forgotten.

If I had no other choice in life, I would have touched your lips

Have traced myself and found myself again in eyes,

Have loosened myself to your fingers.

I'm all awash in a false sort of spring,

As lowly as the water I stomp,

As loud as strong as the warming winds.

Each moment becomes the last, I want

to feel to fuck to fight to burn

against my skin.

This is the mania of spring again, Can you keep up?

I'm okay with a few bridges burning;

I've been the student of gossip all the snowy days

and watched the subtle words of arm brushing arm in classrooms

And now they burst into sex and spring as I watch.

Let's sing some things loud and out of tune,

feel the tiny gestures only for their worth against the large-written words

Of Chinook and early thaw.

Thaws conclude in cracking:

Snow descends to slush descends to slick spilling

smooth

ly

sticking

ing to each step.

Dusk delivers a thousand solitary sounds,

The last licks of light bleed and die across the snow.

A lack of Faith, perhaps, or the lack of touch

Lets me feel the light on my skin.