Desired Reversals

What  I wanted,  I  wanted  so  much  I  consumed  it.    Then  it  wasn’t  my
thing anymore. It was passing through me, becoming my energy.
                What I didn’t want, I wanted so far from me that I blocked it. I locked it in a site I could forget about. Now that thing consumes me, feeding back through the walls like fire, sound, or gravity.

You’re not an island, as who is. More like, we’re spits, or peninsulas.
                Nevertheless,  when  the  high  tide  strands  us — a  long  way — we can always get to where someone begins to harbor fondness.
                Shallow  water  ports  are  hard  to  come  by,  it’s  true,  but low tide will  define,  and anyway the best part’s inland — less wind — more  there  to see.
                If  you’re  headed  this  way,   down  the  strait,  or  on  the  morning ferry,  and  we  meet  up  somewhere a  few words from  here, we’d better be ready   for   things   beautiful   and   strange.   I’m   just   saying.   Everything celebrates that celebrates a we-change.

The  surface  of  the  lake  was  almost  perfect,  like  a  blue  plate.  No  wind, nothing  to  upset  it.   You  told   me  you  wanted  to  break  the  lake.   Why would you want to break the lake?
                 Well   with   nothing   more   specific   full   of   wonder   down   an autumn’s  early  lightfall  pretending, we lapsed  in  a  copse,  then,  panting. Along  an  owed  series  of  ifs   that   thenned   together  in  no  wind  out  of mind…
                 I  loved  you  past  tense,   beyond  tense.   Lakeside,  we  were  the dream  defiers,   dream  deifiers.   Forget  any  debts.   Forget  the  morning chill. There was nothing more we needed to get through our heads.
                 Between  us,  I  too  wanted  to  break  the  lake.  To  reset  it  more perfect.

Tiptoe — hush,  now — stealth  becomes the  early  way  —  characteristically  we lay   bare   nerves   against   a   Braille   world.      Dot-by-letter   dares   revealing  then: imaginary sentences with real words in them.
                I’m     up,     it’s     dawn,     sadly     half-spent     (haply    half-earned?), approximately    gray.     Everything,     this    season’s    weather:    touch-and-go  today.   New   and   old,   latest   sun   and  undone  dew,  exchange  a  mist-and- fog, “Hello.”
                And  then,   now,   quiet,   is  it?   Yes.   Between  the  distance  and  the windowscreen,    drenching    sudden    showers   tilt    it    down,    felt   freshets. Rainfall   brushes   grasses;   drizzle  presses  houses;   water  lets  us  eavesdrop, runs adrift, and comes aground. All clean.
               Put  a  finger  on  it.  Does  the  rain  say?  Or  seem  to  say,  “The world would be clear to you. It even writes you when it has to.”