iamzach.com

Those, Whose solid stone deserts lead to ways out, which lead back in, whose solid stone deserts lead to fault lines and empty tables. My style's beginning lies to the left of you, your grave lies at the foot of my bed, as flat and impassive as your face. It's dust and gravel and shiny fragments I carry with me now, found in the old hollow corners of your house, red, now grey, maybe destroyed, an outline not filled and twice removed, a kindness of likes I can't find beneath me, some desire to be closer, wonder at your wisdom, concern for your health, you vs the world and your shattered bones scaling me down one tenth size weak and blistered caring out on the steps... My death loved the attitude of your attention, my gratitude grew under your mended bones, my small existence latched onto you. Now, as I struggle to keep you from fading, I design cells, and steel doors, and look for you, whose isolation past and present slips through seams and entire buildings unnoticed, your pool played out until the last drop, your wisdom dries the trouble spots, brings us close to magnetic, so close we push away like opposites. And it's you I'm looking for as well, snow falling away, changing 20 plus 17 plus 10 plus 9, through 4 of us now, like the desert weren't made of sand, or dried and cracking old relics from a past never hatched from eggs never conceived in minds under a decade old, struggling, maybe, to learn how frost works, or maybe the meaning of it anyhow, with your majesty and your presence, and your frailty...