where the writers are
natant dream apparatus

I saw the water reach up through your face and bring back memory and in that dawning your old life rose up through the years that had come between the two of us riding strong deep-brown horses across brush and old rotten fruit never picked when the season was full of flavor and you and i brought our bodies bounding down from the valley-tops swinging through water green and dark as a dead mouth that spoke to us and sent paroxysms of truth through our brittle little brains to think that we would one day be that and all of the lives we would have to endure to begin outside that continuum as old as the beginning of the thought of the universe and down to the small cuts in our hands have grown so textured and handled as we have been to think we could forget and the worlds split between us racing back through the brush to get back home we never knew what it was until it was gone are the flowers so soon to bleed out and outside of this stretch of moment when we will one day know ourselves through each other again.