on people that are like ropes

it is these nights that make the box seem inviting, better, more fruitful.

in there at least needs no explanation, and this is the chatter that keeps true company,

quite oddly.

sometimes the lock and key just beats the face-painted effort-

but, stay there long enough 

and you'll never leave.

all these ice-skaters bore a deep-sea fisherman

his vast images of the oxygen, hydrogen, carp and whale infinity all too fresh

to be swept up by their skimpy clattering.

not that anyone would dare cut a hole in the ice.

not that he would offer to.

too thick during the winter... the rain made it that way,

and the expanse and the split.

magic only happens in solitude where the door can be propped open

by pages thick and musings so viscous

they become windowpanes.

it seems the saline solution is to invoke the tryst of solitude and companionship,

swim in the void for awhile. 

for where else do things happen but in empty spaces?

until then, give me naught but the box

lock and key, it and me nudging the waves through the ocean.

i'll be empty enough till then.