if I see the shallows here
can I turn back to the small blue and pink houses where I have somehow collected myself

there is the salted earth and the performative green grasses
what it feels like to want you is the same as
being in the car and knowing how far you must be
from where you have felt most considered by your surrounding spaces and you pause and consider the turning

lighting something and taking the wheel

I am in the middle of a beige walkway and it said that beige is the color of the universe. It was believed before to be turquoise.

I read that in a book that somewhat broke me breaking not as the thought of loss or separation breaking as in,
the understanding of tenacity and how to hold it to know someone is out there

and that they could be the next person
who considers why cartoon movies make you sob

if we are alone in this beige world
I’ll find it un-ending
and now it sort of covers itself
like when we went on that trip
and you screamed at me outside the car and I didn’t know then but that day I felt the quality of the never ending beige

sleeping at opposite edges of the tent
and in the middle of coyotes haunting the air with their screams, we are still finding ourselves pulling each other back in
back into the beige
the night seems forever but there will be a five a.m. lilac sky

and the residual water from the washing of the fruit is not lilac it is coral pink and I rub the stain onto the wall
sort of like damaging something because you can

small bits of fennel flower in a translucent box could pacify this

but I could be pushed into the wall just to reoccur once again not as me or the small marks on my hands
to return as an outline of what existed there before
having no body and in return knowing endless beige

the ceilings may be high but I swim with her in the olive green water it is beneath the stone that I find
two precious seeds
pomegranates

their gooey jewels slowly repeat
over and over in the milky hues of this world’s underneath I am not trying to forget you
I am just stuck in this green

night is red like the pomegranates
I push through another day
to know that you’ll open the door to a white table, an accumulation of dried cornflowers

could it just be a disappointment falling back falling forth pointing at the horizon
“go there”

but there is no horizon in this olive green subdue me in lace
subdue me with your hands

I like your hands
they can fix things but not this – it’s okay the disappointment has us reeling in it small halo disappears
over the land over the salted earth
we are below
cornflower resting on the stairs

I make a pile of these things:

driftwood
tattered ancient ribbons charcoal Salt
grey blue stones
orange bits of plastic

how many times could I echo my missing you in this queer future I can’t find the tender center just the murky olive green