Upon Leaving

I've said too much, I've asked
even more and found little.

I am a woman with long heart,
dark brain that breathes

a black lung, a cursed premonition
and traveling, moves away from

light (what form shrinks from light?)
like a leper at daybreak or crow

from it's roost, flies down
flies down and hides.

And we imagine, a reason to hover
stay clever and shy

(serious, gifted)
windswept and white,

after saying goodbye-
all that I'd hoped for.

The Instinct of Dying

You drone
in my head like

some startled bee
instinctively humming;

tail
snapped

from its yellow
small body-

unmindful
the last song

is all
about dying.

Undercover

What brings me here?

I count each wave inside
the sea (from east to west)
trace maps of star
that point beyond

infinity (without assurance)

for this, I suffer?

Night, hoard your secrets,
Moon, conceal your dreams

and Sky release
your sentient treasures;

I will remain untutored
(a rube) and learn,

quietly to
outshine you.

.

Delivery (draft)

I came out of you
an unholy mess-

oozed earth stains,
star-silt, liquid rose-

green clay held
by twisted ropes

(vines that made me)

Darkness of the Well

When we touch
this is a way

of "knowing"-

the soft hair
of speaking,

the rugged skin
of worry,

fine granules
of desire,

sharp needles
of despair.

To "feel"
is to return

to our body-
a mollusk

to its handmade
shell; our fingers

groping blindly
in the darkness

of a man-made well.

Hasten Home (draft)

Hold "hunger" still-
its trembling,

earth following
with thunderous desire

and sleepless seeds
scattered by a widow's hand

will never flower.

Dreams where I
have learned to fly,

moments spared
their execution-

pardoned of their
thoughtful meaning

will not faithfully
redeeming- hasten

us to home.

All Things Invisible

In wide open spaces
I confess my love
for all things missing.

I have no secrets,
no wounds, no burning
destiny, no sacred tablets
to deliver me

from invisible.

There is a story
about a boy
who swallowed light;

and it ate him
from the inside,

until he became

light.

On the subway,
a woman cried out

"Jesus!"

and burst
into flames.

No one noticed
the fire
of her skin.

Genuflect When You are Thinking

So many bodies without bodies
and each of them, so many of them,
moving towards (or away?) from

a universal sign. My eulogy
and its lack of information-
could it be I never lived
as I had dreamed? They genuflect

as if to emulate a stance
of "thinking"; from the recess
of my timeless box- ever thinking.

The Burn

We don't seem to care
who buries the robin

broken in the stones;
perhaps, we bequeath it

to the worm to
unburden our dread

and then, when
we are home-

so desperately
unearth the burn

of splendid
shining feather.

Single File (initial draft)

"The somber pages bore no print
Except the trace of burning stars
In the frosty heaven"
(Wallace Stevens)

They followed, single file
as if nature held its ring

tight and unforgiving;

and beauty, what it meant
that day, would not survive.

For awhile, the hand holds
its gifts safe and grateful...

suddenly, the compromise-
released of value, life.

How many jewels are missing;
how many stars seized and shaken

from their well-earned sky?
How deeply will we mourn them?

As Whisper and Secret (initial draft)

...those were the summers that swam
bare-skinned into midnight, drowsy
and bruised by ease, slumberous opium

while blue-black woods, the river
and its harboured dreams
could not be wakened.

Distant and late, bells would ring
of white heather, wild hyacinth
and lily of the valley, faint

as whisper and secrecy of wind
slipping through the leaves.

Constant Dream

A man, a woman,
a fire,

a lion, a horse
and a fire;

a fence so sharp
it bleeds.

Here loss grows
stronger-

without sky,
without grass,
without sound.

These are things
we want for ourselves-

a father, a mother
a source of heat,
a fence to climb over

and into

cloud, field
and sleep.

This is our tragedy:

the dream
repeats itself
without end.

Firefly (draft)

I called you "firefly"
because your hair
caught light

in thin red flame;

as jealous stars re-kindle
in their best and brightest

vein

your eyes returned
the golden glare

of tiny, airborne fires.

Sailing "Sticks" (draft)

We ask:

What logic flows
through muddied vein,
the liquid paths?

"water" and its tendency
towards downward glance,

"children" sailing ships
of rain-soaked branches,

"questions" moving broken
sticks to lower forms of ground.

Relief

Real relief is
too short

to love
you back

for long
"me" gave
you-

some

time.

A Page

Where we left off-

the cul-de-sac, a braided
saddle, a comfortable chair,

leather worn down
to suede- there is still

life in pleasure
of morning, of meaning,

the secrecy of birds,
[a single] thoughtful word...

I turn
the page

and begin.

To Be Continued

Not so like "moment" but more
nearby- as in "doubting"

For instance, the cavities
of wind, the insides of crystal

milky-white and therefore,
flawed, the perfect sin-

this is not (now) where joy
brings pause, then starts again.

White as sky and terrible
as "hoping" we die with

eyelids flung wide-open, fractured
glimpses of... (to be continued)

Winter, Turn Home

We've walked too far, December-
sharp air clicking around us,

a blind man's stick
seeking an edge; tap, tap

a nickel hammer percussing
a large frozen bell.

The city is sleeping, December;
white smoke from our lips,

the stacks of brick chimneys,
the nostrils of brown carriage horses.

These are prayers to be said
in cold, darkened alleys where

shadows creep over snow
like silent black wolves

and yellow-lit windows
(square shaped moons)

detach from their stone.
We've walked far, December,

the city is sleeping,
we finally turn home.