Glass Eyed

I have a heart who
would believe it since
my eyes are white with salt.

I have died too many
times before to miss the warm
regret of blood. Now you know

whose voice will call
to others in the night.
Wave goodbye my darling, wave

goodbye.

Arrivals

It all began no
it didn't. I can't find
my shoes to take me there.

I know I am an animal,
yes and I can choose which
one I want to be-

a wolf, a bird or snake
with yellow eyes. Will I
bite? do stars, do stones
does prayer?

Finally it ends no
it doesn't. I have just
arrived like snowflakes
on the windows.

The Shape of Eternity

There are no edges in life
but curves; no corners
but imperfect angles like
the cartileged joints where
wings are attached to
the keel-shaped sternum.

This means the world is round,
gravity is not final until
the wind dies down and the hollow
light-blue spirit leaves its body
to settle into the ground. Then,
like an arrow shoots skyward.

What Falls Through the Cracks

There are questions
in every creatures mind-

what is dew, why is the moon
yellow and round, how do oysters

build a pearl, who is God?

Everyday, the answers
are different. Once,

I caught a firefly
in my palms, it glowed

shining through
cracks of my fingers;

I thought I held
a star, at least

a fragment of one;
when I opened my hands

its light was gone.

A Cold Existence

It's colder now, in California
where a walk on the beach requires
a coat and scarf, where the sea
looks angry and dark as winds fingers
snap and pop its metallic surface.

It's colder now, in my heart, sky
a great grey blanket, puffed up clouds
as if it gathered the feathers of birds
who flew into its mouth and sewed them
to its jacket.

In the morning, the fog gallops in,
a ghostly herd of wild horses whose
hoofbeats are the wind, whose nostrils
steam with exertion. Up they stride,
to a point of no existence and quietly
dissolve.

The Mist

His voice was like a memory of sound;
the electric spark that turns a word

into fire or water to boil. When he
paused to take in a breath, I measured

the present from past, the past from future,
an audio-door whose hinges were stressed

and loosened. And then, it was gone like
the foghorn cry carried away by the sea

into a silent world, a wall of mist.

Emotion

My heart is in
my eyes. Why else
the rain?

My wound erodes
to bone; cracks white
like lightening.

Far off, in the woods
wolves raise their voices
through cold darkness

as if to warn me,
a storm is coming.

Even the Wolf

How often do you check yourself?
I asked the dog. Expecting no answer,
I watched him carefully lick his fur.

Oh if humans would be so fastidious
in their observations; if they cared
enough about themselves to care about others.

And then, butterflies, their delicate form
of mating as the female clings to leaf,
the male flitting so quickly upon her

you could not see them touching. They fly
away at last, dancing joyously through air
lightly, loosely entertwined with eachother.

Even the wolf, sharp teeth and ferocious
hunting instincts, brings home his prey
and shares it with his lover.

Pillow Talk

I am talking to you
in the middle of the night
about death and light and
stars and deathly things.

You can hardly bear it,
begging me to silence as if
silence would put a pillow
over our heads and ears,

as if silence will buffer us
from mortality. You call me
morose as if I invented death,
as if I haven't learned to see

beauty in black flowers
that open only at night.

The Country of Soul

When I was born,
this was not my country.

Once you leave the womb
it takes awhile to claim anything-

anything at all.

One must learn to use
the senses: first, touch,

then smell followed by the eye.

Some time later, the heart
begins its lessons, claiming

joy, love and sorrow.

When I was born,
this was not my country

until the soul,
burrowed in the body,

clawed its way closer
to the surface like

an angel shivering
in a deep, dark well.

Imitations

It is difficult to tell
the frauds from the real thing.

Am I a ghost caught on tape,
choreographed to walk through

time's dark tunnel, a ray of light?

Am I tired of life and all its beauty,
hands pressed desperately against thick glass?

We are separated from each event
by courage; who survives the night,

who prays despite desire.

In the window the candelight
lures the moth; it too is fooled

by imitations.

The Wild

Tonight the world is wild
and I am wild like the rabbit,

the red-faced fox, the trembling
field mice. When the summer rain

taps on the roof top like needles
hitting aluminum, I am rain;

a small grain of something
is the skeleton of everything.

And then, the architecture
of owls, wings are opened,

feathers turned out, the body thrown
on the wind in a wild, wild ride.

As It Should Be

I rise
in the morning.

A sparrow
flutters through

my room
like a heart

in fear,
crashing

against windows,
clutching, panting

on the curtains.

And I am
like a ghost

to this poor bird.

When I was
sleeping, I was a tree

or a large
agate stone or

even a very quiet
stream traveling alone

through the hillside.

Again, I laid
back into my bed,

holding my breath;
once again his world

was calm
as it should be.

The Supper

He is the author of what
we see. When we see nothing
even that belongs to him.

Open your eyes and let them burn.

So many things belong to him, yet
every man, a witness to his fury
when stones are thrown, blood is
spilled or hearts are bitter.

In the shadows of early evening,
he comes cool, forgiving with
baskets of fish and sweet wines

for those who know him.

The Last Red Hill

Before you go,
I need to tell you
I did not expect longevity.

Like holding onto
the last dark cloud,
the nearest star drowning

in its liquid purple,
I knew your absence
would change me.

While far into the night,
a lone black wolf gallops
over smoldering fiery hills

to greet the sunlit
meadows, newly crowned,
I knew that I would miss you.

The Opposite of Woe

Something heavy falls. You know
the feeling. We fell together,

a large iron ball and still
we're falling; if I knew what bottom
awaits us, it would make no difference.

Someday things will be contrary;
we will be winged and weightless.

Windswept in Darkness

We cannot retrieve what we have lost. Darling,
as I watch you sleeping, I add to my souvenirs.
What spider's web caught in sunlight shines like
your white blonde hair or sea contests your closed
blue eyes as it roars, windswept in total darkness.

Beneath the bones of your chest, faithful muscle
beating to an ancient rhyme, whose redness shames
the roses, whose sentiment ripe with joy. We cannot
lose what we have gained and I will hold what I have
earned long after you're awakened.

Nothing In This World

I am building a perfect life, unconscious
and grateful. A life's story which begins
and ends with breath or more importantly,

the heart, what it spills when shattered.

And what of constant struggle, the search
for love in a wilderness of love, a desert
of illusion, a sacrament of triumph?

Nothing in this world is apparent.

In cold rain, darkness traps silhouettes
of stars, yet leaves them blinking for
children peering out their windows.

Perspective

From a place outside the womb
twin wolves were conceived-

life and death.

And in a dream, a long necklace
ribboned like the grape vine

fed them.

To live among wolves,
one must know how to resemble them:

to look away,to bow and roll,
to bend without breaking.

In the air above them, falcons stare
as if what struggles on the ground

below them

is senseless.

Enough

about you,
what about

the serpent

hunting
for field mice

or a voyager
caught in a storm?

Where is my peace
of mind; has darkness

consumed it?

I know that my love
for beauty will be

my inferno, my source
of constant grief; yet

I cannot remember
the last time you

kissed me.

Disappearing

Like an object falling
through dark water-

where are you?

My devotion to you
was certain as something hidden
stays hidden.

If you were to be saved
like light in a bell jar
or a large glass house-

what would you be?

The dream moves faster
than the dreamer; the small
silver fish darting away

from Goliath will live
only to escape. Once,
I caught you

like a burning stone
in my palm and just as quickly
dropped you.

What He Imagined

Each morning
Icarus flies up,

every afternoon
he touches the sun.

By evening,
his body afloat

in the sea and
the sea cradles him.

His face,
white and green,

his golden shoes
unlaced.

His arms still
stretched as if

he'll try again.

The Sacred

When you win a heart, you win
a faith. O let my fingertips
know a stone from flesh!

There is no abyss, the ground
is flat and honest; the weed
allowed to flourish. I've loved

you like a socket in the soil
demanding less than roses.

Everything is sacred when
its tragic. The butterfly
who cannot tell the difference

from fresh or dying flowers,
the spider who creates a masterpiece
of silver ruined by flies, a bird

whose feathers are destoyed by
fire trembling in the boughs.

Who is Worthy?

Give me your hand, the morning said,
its head on fire, I will walk you through
the valley, up into the hills.

Are you patient, are you gifted,
do you know where heaven is?

My hands are rough, they are not worthy;
though, even lizards have a purpose
scuttling over blazing sands.

Now on creaking hinges, evening brings
its pen, scrawling words of darkness
with sure, immortal script. Are you

worthy of the stars, are you worthy of
the faithful moon? And I, alone
and stricken in my quiet room

cannot answer.

The Pauper's Home

With a grain of dirt I bless
this house of mud and bones.

My language is not eloquent
but broken like a stolen kiss

hastily yet sweetly held.

I will never be a city. Never
be a castle, regal in its stone.

Instead, this handful of ashes,
this field of common flowers
brilliant in untended form

will suite me more.