Some people have to be pushed
into a new life, others create one.

Speaking of renewal, the sun
does it everyday: a single path

lit only by its body. Wolf-like,
night follows on steady feet.

What does this mean? Those who
see the world as dark, imperfect,

immovable are mistaken.

Black Swan Theory

The Chinese Udumbara tree
blooms once every 3000 years;
as rare, a black swan finds its mate.

And the heart asks "What is the purpose
of patience, who can endure it?"

In a Chinese village, the unlikely
bloom was found flowering
beneath a washing machine.


Dead Lovely

I bled faint pink rose; I've been
dead for years. Few believe in ghosts
and still, you married me. Now love,
the pivoting elbow of reason, separates
you from me. In the cold, back room
where the deceased are displayed, how
pungently sweet the bunches of jasmine;
how bitter the body.


Constant motion is a curse;
ask the sea or heart.

The purest form of peace,
the soul and how it stands

perfectly quiet.


Where is the missing joy?
Who has peeled it, swallowed
the soft, orange pulp
left a hard, wrinkled core?

Always one last clover
poking through snow; the problem,
if we pluck it we cultivate
solitude, deprive the sparrow

its final fare.


Maybe I want to know
what happens to the wolf
disappearing into woods
or beetles camaflouged
on freckled rock.

Often what is noticeable
is deceiving: the moon
how near it floats,
the weight of water,
the poison buttercup.

Perhaps, it's wiser to abandon
the search, let mysteries live.
In a language rarely heard,
the night agrees.

Experience Has Changed Me

Eternity and sky; I don't know
how long it's hung there. A small bird
and its tree, dragonflies humming
like people often do.

What could be more desirable?

It's not for us to find metaphors
for simplicity. Let the world speak
for itself. As for me, I have no idea
what makes it so beautiful.


Come of Age

The boy leaves the house,
walks by the tricycle in the yard,
abandons his mother. Where is he
going? Why are you asking?
The gate swings open like
a sprung trap. A man latches it
quickly behind him.


A Spider In the Mouth

She is the master
of invisible, the shadow
of diminutive. A spider
in the mouth of a bear.

No white coat, silver ring
or strong rope. There is
no one who will save her.

Like fog that waits
exactly where it formed
until a small wind
removes it.


In The Basement of My Body

In the downstairs world,
the inner universe, slow

like cold moths resting on
a basement wall, darkness

is the room that kills love
before it becomes a burden.

I mean to say, my heart grows
black and stale; a crack in

the concrete floor stumbling
towards its own grief.

Do you know what moves
upstairs? A cloud, the color

of grey eyes with bones
that glitter.


The Things That Hurt Us

All night, the diamond curls
in the secret hollow of my palm,
knuckles shining bone. One by one,
the fingers open, giving up
the beveled jewel.

Sometimes we hold the things
that hurt us, burning through
the fist-like heart; other times,
in pain, we let them go.

Prepare yourself to lose the blessed
gifts you've treasured, to miss
the beauty of their joy. Tonight,
I sleep with both hands clenched,

to keep them for myself.


Prideful Extinction

What do you know of God? A scrap
of matted wool stuck in the door-frame,
too small to trick the silver latch.

But mostly, the invisible steam
trapped in its glass pot, bubbling water
struggling to the surface; although,

your punishment will be the burn
when the lid is lifted.

So spout your proud extinction, the always
of what-frightens-you does not exist,
the what-lies-hidden-beautiful-mysterious

could merely be a dream.

Intolerable Season

We were born to create,
rising from mud, wild flowers
different as fingerprints or
the bodies of trees.

And our names roll sweetly
unfolding- tongues of butterfly
eating sweetness, clutching the stamen
with our frail, hooked fingers.

What travels on wind, aimlessly,
settles in cracks of stones or
carried downstream to new ground
re-creates where it came from.

Meanwhile, no amount of oblivion
or intolerable season can stop us
from making or being everything
we seem.



Big and it's broken.
Whatever has fallen, lies here.
So careful, it holds out its tongue
like a cracked tin bucket catching rain.



The fire burns out; its heat
receding. A cold night and
its shadows turn wildly
to the hills- a pack of wolves
rushing a deer. Further out
in the woods, a small dead bird,
flies make their way down to bone,
wind plays in its feathers. See how
fiercely beauty eats what it loves.
See the stars who know the darkness
will certainly preserve them.

Goodbye To Flesh

Disturbing, the ease at which
he said goodbye to her flesh.
Life is short but not that easy
to forget. Or else, his lack
of passion, something else as if
he'd done it before. Like sight
to braille, unecessary. Perhaps,
there should be more blood, the way
an artery opens up, the rush of red
before falling flat and still. Now,
she is more than flesh, less than
flesh, too large for grieving,
too small for tears.


Tethered to Shadow

Only those who expect blue skies
are saddened by the storm; paradoxically,
we grow toward light, our bodies
creating shadow. In truth, the spirit
is a winged creature whose feet are
chained to flesh. Deprived yet hopeful.

Luscious Life

juice. Hairy fruit.
Mixed and baked
with sugar, flour, milk.
It's hard to eat
just one.


A Song of Darkness

When we speak of
the abyss, oh! we sing
when least expected,

a dark, sweet song, a sound
of sorrow.

In the night, uncertain singing,
a nameless voice, a finely
sculptured throat.

With faithful passion,
unconscious hope, we sing,
we sing like quickened birds

and leap into the pit.


The Twitching

One could pass
from this light
into another,

out of smoke and
into grace;

has never seen clearer
than this, the soul.

It has no end
or gap or shudder
like water spills,

its soft, white spine.

Already, memory endures
the distance, a splinter
of nothingness glitters.

Only sadness dying
twisted, twitching

is left behind.