(dream/wired to) a common ground [ + - ]

Weaves and grids. But you hear yourself reading it: waves. The lights foreshorten. The grass unseen yet more saw being  reinvented behind. The bed grassy for. Eyes / an initial invention aren’t they? The earth has no comment but would like to offer a  piece of opened sky as coordinates in which you are promised a closed path like a happy child. Induced, like in time you always  find a me at the end so why bother the I. And happiness Flows. You begin to question if you really have crawled into some soft  plastic structure and laid your mind onto that invisible pillow. Or is it just the same old ground. All you need is to get down. Ask  your shadow. Before she becomes another body’s breathing. Moistened into a deeper shade and of conductivity. But you hear  yourself reading it / already————She could be a cat in anyone’s passenger seat. An ever smaller spoon. Only for one / dear  grain of rice. Finally the confession finally the open sesame though each one of us somewhat complicit in keeping it on the high  shelf. She reads you a poem from yesterday. You listen but all you hear is the sky tenderly torn into bite size pieces it almost feels  truer that way / that this could have been what it is, bright prepositions / as they percolate / through the weave / to enter / you.  And you think about a tomorrow. There was a tomorrow yesterday that is no longer. That is not the one. The one came to you is  green. A vibrantly silent #00B140. Maybe a weathered #00B140 / is still intensity by nature but she is the most loving kind you  know. The universal living room type. Green / forgive as green for give. Your uncrushed hair knows, your shallow kissed scalp  knows, your back and vertebrae and buttocks and heels / know————She remembers / everything and would gently peel each  of their names off with her well-chilled slivery twisters, if not a day crescent. A real artist of archival practice. What is temporal  discharged into the spatial, and the spatial into a phenomena. Like a perfect good night or the unherbing of herbs in infusion. No  two points exists in the meadow without one shared instance and all levels collapse / nomadic. No dice needs to be rolled over  this / undulation. No dandelion’s mane do not find its way back to a ground. You think of circuitry. Zero potential reference for a  flight or a fall here—————Pick your word to plant in this bed grassy for / Rehearsals. Among the many others. Soothed and  Sprout. Ever emanating lineworks. Tissued winds / sink with more faces in quietude. The page appears. The page disappears.