Exercise 6, Kevin Eib

Stay this my bridge. The moon above hangs her ever lately hovering near but not ever, no never, touching this my bridge below. My bridge, mine, above and about me. This my, mine, this my yearning for her nearer, her rustle me tenderly in the hushaby of darkness broken with her brooding above, her weight pressing radiant fractures spilled over my banks of this the otherwise darkened body all my own, all or our own, all hours between us. Something slipped between us. Between her and his and he and me it slips and nestles discreetly. Slips away from anyone to call my own in the subtle moonlit haze of above my bridge, the mistress moon swooping low, so low I could call to her to him to whomever and have her as my own. Someone to call my own in the emptied day's night creeping wearily away and away always away from me and mine, yours too. Yes, you. Even you. Our own, or only, our anything to fill the barren of without what we may some subjunctive night call out call now my moon, your moon, anyone's our moon so low in the expectant sky dropped back and over this my bridge below. Hinged bridge, hovering bridge, hold me close bridge below sky and overheard in whispers buzzing beyond, bridge going away with pattering companions, somewhere hushed away from me his voice, I heard you, above and beyond. Far. I remain in this my bridge below, claimed by my keeper, in this my bridge, myself below. Ensconced in my common comfort, I curl in my casing of creepers and climbers, vines of ripened pepper birds singing mutely in my throat. A song of the forgottenhood, long and lost with a whittled wood voice echoed in equations of remember me away, some way or path or drive my reverie road reflected in the dry bed of the once-was crick staring in its time out with no flow or connect, no spout or spigot, no drip, rush, surge or standing still come-wade-in-my-water. No nothing for this crick, no anything any longer, not even no matter, for still I stay, I remain I say, I resound with my or mine or his, whoever's dirty little birds stuck with voices ripped through cords swollen with rust and river moss cupped in a wet voice that has lost its way with flow, someone's shriveled connection, dried up in the back of my throat with no words or utterance in this late night longing for more than the split rail spiked in my throat, deep, back, sliding down and away, distancing further from the moon above (what a beauty), my bridge below. I am up in the swell of my sunken hole gazing up, gazing out in my luminous basking swayed of once more my moon, my love, my longing out in the open of lemon weed and cherry grass, bulging eyes of tiger gnats floating up from the thick fur bark. My own bark brittle dry and peeling away but I up and out to see once more my love-me-like-that hanging her constant hover hold me up and above. Mud and honeycomb, vine and strew, up I creep my crawl and ripen in the bed of crick. Out my midnight maybe more in swollen afterthoughts, underthoughts given over, this my bridge not stayed. Looking up and out and away I catch a capture, a glimpse some glance, into the other I have known in storied whispers of daily lightwash, the light sliding beyond the bridge with a nightly away to other scapes of land, sexes, points, a desire plodded in some other’s away, away and away moving constantly away from this brooding gale kinked in a spring wound tight, a coil stirring his ready with the moon anticipating the need to stretch, burst, explode in a distension further toward the vision we clutch close in our above. Further above hangs low, hangs flirtatiously away in a low cut of orange and heavy and longing. I crest to his side, her side, inside, a mouth embodied in a spring of breath, a sprig of decayed leaves still moist from some winter past. His is a different form, he, his and hers--a different nature than my own formation and still I recognize the touch between us, am drawn to the place inside him on this our momentary bridge, endlessly my own below. A cog, a whir, a commotion of kept in alignment with oils and fluids made outside my watered past my watered down and away with a new drip of darkness spoiling my split sides of desire, connected in wires and tubes and sparks of clutch me here now, press firmly and flow into some other movement. I do not know his ways of while me away in the ticks of time’s end I'll chime in mockingbird chalk marks stroked full of choke and lurch back to fill me up once more with his own efficiency of touch me in this time, fleeting moments on the bridge, some other efficiency he owns in this other than my own, this strange and familiar pattern, the opposite pattern, the inverse, looking always the same in my deep set stones of eyes like any kind of wanting to put me together and here I go if you'll let me, long at last me, let go or sometimes even on the bridge with the moon hung low just go. Go and ever away in our lately this time longing. "Yes?" "Yes." And it is so. Briefly, with the moon foolishly low, watching without words, our embrace of pods and pistons, steam thrown out in an exhaust of feathers streaming from my songbird spout, my sing me to sleep in this forgotten fauna, limbs lost and found in the late frost of let me burgeon in this newly moistened morning of no longer welcome, the waning light of moon don't leave me, don't, no not yet and knowing she's set out the thawing of tomorrow's season, another one thing and then another waiting on the horizon to be devoured. Away. With he, with me, with all the days and nights and seasons and longings beyond the songs of these pepper birds spilling shelled seeds in a rancor of something no longer my own, his own, anyone's own in my any way. Away and away moving ever away from me under this my bridge. Days and minutes, minutes and days, moments, years, hours, millenniums I must wait from one moment to some next in my stay this bridge for one more, once more, this my waiting again and again when I will make the leap from under the bridge to over the moon. Silence now. Swelling in the birdcage sunk deep beneath my stones and striped stalks. Aware of a world absolved above in some other time or place or language but for now away while I await my moon mistress calling, calling. Constantly calling her ways into mine and her, you, me, his someone constantly away from her. I must stay this my bridge.