the temperature of time.

Here. Grab a scrap, any scrap, and go from there with pencil and blade, typer and colors.

You said lets jump and I said no, stay,
 and sit and feel the dust collect on your skin.

Sit long enough and still enough the let the particles of the ocean and the farms and the planes and the cars and every exhale of every person in the city settle on you.

The moisture in the air, the vibration of a glass in the basin sink as it is being washed. It slowly disappears and reappears and you are magic.

He said don't cling,
it will all tilt away from you eventually
and I don't want to see you get hurt from my tilting.

You said let's walk under the trees and feel the cool air of their life in the air, and breathe the deepness into ourselves. But I did take the axe,
and chopped it down and felled it.

One year has passed slowly;
tattoos of clocks, birds, lace, a compass on one arm and a clock on the other and an anchor  on the tip of your hip bone that gracefully rises to the surface of your skin.