The Messenger

Who are the prophets;
have I seen them
and not known?

A small bird flies in
my open window everyday
when I'm not home.

Despite the wolves,
the knives, the picked-over bones,
it settles on the indoor ferns

as if it knows the future.

Oblivious

Days are shorter now, colder;
rust builds up in the bones.
What was new today, is not,
even snow is recycled.

I say to magnolias "you too
will fade and drop". They have
no sense of sadness,no memories
of loss. They are so unblemished,

such strangers to sorrow.

Down We Go

1
Low-light in the tunnel;
self and its many limbs
reach out for something
to hold onto. The voice
a siren's song calling
its victims- pray for us.

2
When we turn away from
the mouth, we are left with
hunger. Zipped up, eyes
are like stones weighing heavy,
smooth and silent. Tell us
this is not final.

3
Down we go like a forgotten
language. Down we go swallowed
by the gold-lined gullet. How does
the grape feel in our throats
or the small piece of apple
that nearly destroyed us?

Some Things are Better Left

Not one of the things you'll notice
would have stayed with you forevor.

Forevor is a word like immense,
like powerful, like possession.

At night, the trees whisper "forevor"
or is it the winds who do not stay
but move towards the mountain.

And I am left, hovering in the doorway,
a piece of darkness, a shadow without
substance, a bird locked in an iron cage.

But even if you could have stayed, fixed
like stars, daylight would have hidden you
in a big blue cloud-filled sky.

You Never Healed

At the end of the day,
I can still hear you, though
I'm blind, I see you
walking away. Like a recurrent
dream, I've lost you again.

Would I suffer that my paradise
was tending your garden, pleasing
to the sun, roses, their fiery faces
stretching upward?

And how I cared for you
as if each blade of grass
was sweetness; each new
branch and sprout delight!

It is not clear when
you left me. One afternoon
your hands mirrored mine
scratched and bruised
from thorns and stones

by evening you were gone.

Stasis

Deep auburn, brown
old blood. I'm so
over you

I'm coagulated.

Sometimes It Is Enough

When you pray
do you hear God?

When you love
is it harmless?

Have you ever
seen a ghost?

Do you believe
that stars are dead
before you see their light?

Did sorrow ever
break your heart?

What I know
at each sunrise
is that I am ALIVE.

And So I Remember

These days,
for the most part,
are spent between
remembering and
un-remembering.

When we are young,
we want to forget.
Without understanding
we want to saw our wings off

and leap into darkness.

With age, remembering
is what separates us
from worm or mole.
It is light. It is wing.

It is fire.

Manhattan Beach

A walk on the beach,
barefoot holding our shoes,
the winter sun still warm,
waves still bright, houses
line the sand, their windows
reflecting water. An old man
sleeping in a chair on his porch
like a gnarled tree leaning
at the joint where some traumatic event
(maybe lightning or wind)struck him down.
His body grown into the house,
weathered shingles, chipped blue paint
and quiet as sleep disturbed only by
the angry cries of gulls wrestling
for crabs, a flock nesting silent
in the sands as the sun begins to sink,
a blazing face looking down,
the old man wakes and like a dream
disappears inside.

Flight

If you look behind you, a trail
of gulls means something ominous-

a dog disturbed their nests, perhaps
a dead whale washed ashore or dolphins
hunting for fish in the shallows.

I prefer to think they are
just traveling the world

with long, white wings.

The Shot

He was the bullet
through the skull.

He never said "goodnight".

There was nothing left
of me but shattered pieces

of a brilliant red.

Through an Attic Window

We can only know what we are
given. Where is the soul within
its body? Or does it watch us

from the outside like a stranger?

All day long my heart beats stronger,
at night it searches for a corner
like a frightened child.

Are souls more beautiful than dreams
or do they vanish like the stars?
Through an attic window, what watches

from afar, a lonely human being
seems nothing more than what they are.

The Storm

Like a slow storm, love comes
over the horizon, grey at first
then black. The smell of grass
and earth, the clouds like wet
linen dancing on the clothesline.

The way hills seem to flatten
down, a mouth against a mouth,
streaks of lightening, splendor
of thunder. And just as suddenly
still, beads of sweat on flowers
opening, closing, falling.

Eggs

So many mountains
covered with brush,
dandelions and rubble.

Above ground, a nest
of some small bird;
I have never seen

such blue-specked eggs
of perfect symmetry.

Nearby, a swollen sparrow
capsized by death, frozen
in her eyes, her prayer

like tiny beads reflect
the blueness of sky.

Sweet-White

Now, the sun is gone, I am at peace;
another continent lit-up, blessed
but I am steeped in darkness.

And the world, without warmth reminds me
of him and how I've lost him.

Outside, the world continues; sparrows
chattering, the lone wolf howling,

the wind turning the house edges,
balefully whispering, so beautiful
while final, cold as death.

Only the sky remembers how I loved him;
each star infinitely glowing, traveling
constant flame, oblivious to who may wish

to capture, own or listen to its
intoxicating, sweet-white dreams.

When Death Dives Down

No one can destroy a man like a man.
What is God's gift for such a creature?

From the heavens he must look small,
like a snail, leaves glittery paths

in the garden or quickly falls prey
to large, black crows carried away

and eaten.

Who Do You Love?

No, when you ask me
"who do you love?".

I have not kissed the one
who will undress me.

At night, the wolves come down
to lay beside the fire,

black-fur silvered with light,
the smell of earth in their claws.

And I know the secrets
of their well-earned love-

the darkness, trees, catching
the flickering moon.

Pericardium

Mainly at night, the heart
breaks through its chest,

the same odor of flesh
cut open, acrid like

burning hair.

If it weren't love, I would
call it wreckage; then stone,

lying on the path, unknown
even to the feet that crush it.

And love tosses and turns,
stiffens with its memories,

empties itself of light,
of stars, of longing.

To and From

The walk was dark; the small dog
a shadow. He at least seemed sure
where we were going. Cruel to tell
him we would end up where we began.

So it is for man, continual journey
towards light, away from light,
a white blanket, tall, black wings,
a tether digging deep around the throat.

What does it mean to leave the body
like some reptile shedding its skin?
Is there a path, a ladder, stairs to
follow, climb, ascend?

At Night

I am happy to be alive; if
I weren't I would be dead.

In another tongue, the night
sings for its victims, the cold

dark air, the wind dancing through
poplars, the far off sea hushing them

back to sleep. No one asks how old,
how tired, how often one grieves.

The only word they are allowed to
whisper: goodbye.

He Said No

Can an orchid ever bloom twice
when left like a crooked willow
stick. Is love so difficult once
the bloom is gone?

So I led him into darkness
through a swarm of moths
mistaking moonlight-saturated
tulips for flames. And we

walked across the purple stones
whose lives are more simple
than ours and honest. They only
weep during thunderstorms.

When I asked you to make a wish
sitting on the dampened sand,
you shook your head like seaweed
sliding up the shore-

no, you said, no.

The Dark Side of Love

I had given you everything
I had- remembered the nights
whispering in your ears;
you said it was ocean?

But the strange catch
in my breath, when heart
pounding, raspy and quick
resembled death or happiness

or some dark, unseen creature
lying shaking in an iron trap.
Even then, the wolf would chew
his leg off, without a single prayer

he hobbled away with blood in
his mouth, searching for water.

Mist

Mist, hanging over
the sea. The sea's breath
like milk; its eyes dark-grey
and brooding.

I can't help but wonder
what it's hiding with
sneaky fingers pulling away
the shores small gifts.

Spare the Rose

With a mind always
on the prize, most of everything
consumed like kindling. Outside,
the sounds of earthliness-

a lawnmower, the chirping
frantic birds squeeking
out an invisible existence
for a seed or scrap of bread,

even inanimate creatures of moss,
of stones, of trees stripped bark
and bare reaches only emptied ears;
no one seems to notice when beauty

is devoured; not one rose, leaf
or blade of grass is spared.
Someone should ask the others
what they are waiting for.

And Then the Rain

I.
Who can say that stars
are dead; when I weep
the light, fragmented.

II.
I can name one man
whose heart I swallowed;
absolute light never wavers.

III.
The terrible separation
of soul from body occurs
when we are dying.

IV.
At night, peals of thunder
sound like prayer, like losing
you and then the rain...

V.
and then the rain.