I breathe human through my fingers

I breathe human through my fingers. Am otherwise thin eyed and patient,

reading existence as a brush of listless wind.

The tongue of creation may translate my hungers and a dull vicious calm.

Many hours I cannot sense what draws me and persist then in echoes.

I walk into the tide searching death and tangle my organs in

deep morning cold excavations cutting under my animal agenda and heart.

My lungs are strong and mind ties a needle taut north on goal

until the heart attack afternoon or a drowning.

Inside I am mostly heavy static, but create and feel I should,

should anything because the clear world whirls madness.

The god of goodness innate has been shredded,

never stood whole but there are traces she touched and I may be some.

Become shaking moments and desperation. I wish for anything in the world.

Since living in Seattle these nine months I have learned

that I do not love nature as once thought I could.

Despite a brief wash of euphoric solidarity,

it is not possible for me to love the world and all its passengers.

I shall never relinquish that hope for love,

even unfeeling in the midst of beauty and truth.

I'll acknowledge and perhaps reach there slowly.

I have confused myself with doubts on the emptiness of total meaning.

Whether my path is ineffectual compared against

what justice I might sew if my strengths were applied elsewhere.

I convince myself with fear and escapefulness of

there is no pure good. No option only to heal or live as a clean breath in smoke.

Any pursuit is equal shoutings against a clamped palm

until the ocean floats over your stunned and naked body.

And I feel nothing. Mumbling with my slit-up shins in the brine and

stars clatter overhead like spoons in a shutting drawer. Our Earth is

the shadow of an insect lost on paper white fields, so minuscule and

wandering pangs of connection or knotted in violence hunger