Coco

I'm lost in little infinities, 

in stars that multiply the longer I look.  

I lose count of what's real and what's not, 

unsure when the endless stream of numbers concludes, 

the smell of snow 

sharp and bright 

like the world holding its breath  

just before it turns new 

There is a language 
spoken only in half-glances, 
in the weight of a pause 
just before someone smiles. 

Through the knotweed. Down the ladder made of tree roots. Up onto the big rock. By the river. I stand, mud on my ankle and cuts on my knees. The sun sits just barely above the trees as the sweat sits just above my brow.