After

All day the mind recites
its lessons. In the evening,
the heart unwraps its cloak
and prays for patience. Sometime
after midnight, the soul escapes
its prison and dreams of leaving.

Bitter-Sweet

They pronounced her dead or
monarch of the underneath being

fragments of damp twigs, shards of
broken stones and blind auburn worms;

no wonder blue flowers grow thick
in the place where her heart lived.

Now the light remembers her like
blossoms in the depth of winter

or bright-winged birds fallen into
tiny heaps of bone and feather.

Life above, the emptied just below,
the raging blood, the yielding soil;

on a summer's day it's impossible
to separate sweetness from the bitter.

All That Glitters is the Mind

Literally, mystery is an accident.
Fragility though not unique is
inevitable. A boy finds a marble
in the streets; suddenly his world
becomes remarkable. A crow scratching
with its claws uncovers fresh larva
then flies off desperately searching
for more.

Shield

We will take ourselves seriously
when the dark tunnel winds its way

towards us; the tunnel that brings
terrible, difficult things. There are

no fallout shelters to kneel in;
even the sun can be damaging to

the whitest of skin. On a good day,
clouds with tightly, interlocked rims

shield the timid from sorrow.

Could You Be?

With someone watching you,
the moths, the ghosts, the holy
onyx night, you cannot be
yourself. Outside your body
there are no eyes but pieces
of shadow that glue you to
the light, pin the tail, prick
the bird, stone the heart.

Remind me what a real thing is.
There at the end of the hallway
a photo of myself; not beauty,
not art but history frozen to
the woolly darkness. He asked
through a bullhorn "Could you be
my lover?" Still the golden flame,
the dreadful silence evaporated.

Stop-Clock

All heaven calls for patience;
wherever you're going
it's wise to get there

slowly.

In a blue morning once
I tried to sprint towards evening;
imagine losing tinted golden-green

afternoons.

Nights were also made for savoring,
languid pleasure; the pulsing rays
of starlight moving through

eons of dust.