Crush

I am going blind, yet
still manage to swat
the fly troubling me.
We are alike, authentic
to our nature, our million
mirrored eyes, the fire
reflected there. And so
I set the trap, a piece of
fruit on which he settles
and dies contented.

Summer

Then it was summer. Warm air,
sunlight shaken by the trees,
the sound trees make, breathing,
sighing. All things are healed
in that blue light. And man-made
things- the house on the hillside,
the silver windmill, the old wood
barn- are no longer satisfying.
But the smell of earth, the pungent
flowers, the hawk's harsh scream
reels down for rabbit are immortal.

Paper Bird

Who is better left
by the roadside?

The roadside being
the point in life where

darkness becomes darker
than distance, more violent

than birth which severes
the lung from its heart,

ripping the mind from
its platform. And so one

lies quietly by the roadside
like a miniature god, a broken

cloud, a paper bird.
Becomes the paper bird

whose scissors cut off
its head, punch holes in

its fragile chest and shreds
its lovely, scalloped, wings.

Beneath the Dark Sky

In a red chair beneath
the dark sky, a child
is crying. When stars
rise, the heart becomes
a mirrored shell; sees
everything, sees itself.
The world is bending,
black leaves slowly covered
in snow. Cold shadows fill
the lungs, freeze the voice.
And still the child is crying
like a stone bleeding in
the garden, red, red as roses.

Confirmation

Many things have not yet
been confirmed: the elusive
source of rain, the helpless
routine of changing seasons,
the invisible flowering of
the soul; the way it quietly
survives the trauma of flesh.
The trouble is, with all things
hidden, the signs are subtle
like a single leaf catching
moonlight, shines gold and silver.

Of Power and Glory

If I long to be
remembered,
I am forgotten.

If I pray
to be forgotten,
I am judged.

I am no more
a monument than
grasses, wild cathedrals

of tree,
the brown-winged
bird, his moment

of singing,
flying, clinging
to what he knows.

The worm writhing
in her muddy bed
tunnels lower

and lower where
footprint or claw
can never follow.

Mouths of Light

The light will feed you,
then eat you. Drawn to light,
we are doomed. So we huddle
in darkness, starving but alive,
the door closed and bolted.
Outside, Death begins his day
mowing down the daisies whose mouths
are filled with light.

Laws of Entropy

Despite the desolation of its landscape,
splintering of its lumber, ominous crows
who fly in through the attic's broken
window, this is where the world we live in,
governed by light, made of dust & web,
ruins and changes us. In sulfur forests,
the white-fogged lake resists intrusion
of a sunrise, the fragile starling's nest
invaded by grey fox is torn and emptied,
the skeletal ivory of a deer perfectly
preserved lies quiet, useless, abandoned
on a bed of leaves. Everyday, in a house
made of transient materials, we struggle
incessantly against the elements, the laws
of entropy, the broken attic window.

Lamentations

Whose soft cries are heard
in the cathedral of evening?
The sound of dumb sheep bleating
in the fields, the sound of water
falling from its source. In this
religion, the barbarous cracking
of sky, the shape of shadows that
burden our hearts, the terrible globe
of moon who wears its light as if
it were not stolen, the faithful carry
their grief in the folds of their hands.
Then God, like a mighty wolf in the night
hunts down the sinner.

Unspeakable Night

There is a night
of which the body fears;
its mouthless shadows
without gravity or fire.

Like a child who dreams
he is a small bird captured
by a lion or a migrating fish
eaten by bears. Everyone wants

to be immortal; this in itself,
could be a curse. With such thick
scars, weakened by a hundred years
of wounds, a limitless number

of sorrowful days, perhaps,
it is a gift, afterall
that night of which
the body fears.

Mr. Creator

not the one in heaven, but
the one who writes, your words
smooth, aerodynamic skimming
over the waters of my heart,

then sinking. But the mind,
tentative & shy, counts the excited
verb, the stagnant noun, the rhythm
of a sentence; hides its questions.

So long, the eyes have wandered
many pages like inconstant men;
the corkscrew of the heart opens
every sealed-up bottle, drinks it.

Mr. Creator, master of the arts
of emotions, telling, choosing
the perfect stone, the moment
wherein flawless water propels

the Word into the future.

The Laws of Resistance

My heart is not a cup. My open
palms are more like hooks for sorrow.
Sometimes at night, my heart stops
beating, fills with darkness, poisoned
by its own resistance. Nevertheless,
I am tired of wanting to ease my body
like a worm resisting expulsion from
its cocoon, like a fetus fighting
to stay within its water. In summer,
the light reaches in through curtains,
an unknown hand, the shape of a cup.

Psalm to Love

The violence of your love
is brown-hooded Famine.

Your blood is not your blood
but centuries of flame. A man

is not a man but animal
who follows the smell of soil,

of flower, of meat. Did you
expect me to sacrifice myself

to pain? And you say-

"I have brought you back, cleared
your veins, set you on fire."

The prophet leads his followers
to a cold and shallow ending.

Within the Absence

The absence of a negative thought,
however brief, is like the wind
passing through a tree, pruning
its leafage, then dying down or
an abandoned house whose architecture
still retains its hollow beauty.
What happens within the emptied mind,
the undressed body, the space between
the hand and glove is simply, purely,
most remarkably nothing.

Questions Upon Rising

What is the nature of
waking? Rising bread,
bright-yellow lungfuls
of light, exhaling darkness?

And what about hope? How
it clings like sleeping bats,
the talons of a hawk around
the rabbit's tender throat?

As for happiness, this too
comes in waves. Swells across
the inclined shore, then pulled
by its tail, back into the sea.

Exposure

When you pull
your pants down,
beware of angry dogs
and open blinds.

The Meadow

What do you think about
this life? Are you a man
of darkness or the precious flame?
If I bring you a simple bunch
of wildflowers, will you kiss me
or turn away? Here is my heart
picked fresh this morning, my whole
self, a wild, unkempt garden;
my love for you a light-filled meadow.

Without a Jacket

In rain, the soul
becomes a desperate joy.

Overhead, the darkness
wraps the heart, comforting

the grief of bones, forgives
the arrogance of mountains.

Suddenly, the smell of earth
like coffee, unleashed the licorice

leaves and stones, the round, wet
color of starling eggs. If I could

live forever in the rain, the storm,
without a jacket, this would be my Eden.

Liquid Spirits

Opened, the cherry door
behind whose flame-wood lies
your silver box of nights-

Pandora's gifts cut loose
of its most treacherous spirits-

where metal sweats tarnished
scotch and whiskey.

Here the satyr's ire
crashes down, cracks bone,
wounds muscle, marks skin

with vulgar colors, shatters
a strange raw creature that
used to look like me; quietly

in the morning, pieced
carefully back together.

Savage Moon

What the wolf wants,
the wolf gets. Only
the moon, perhaps,
escapes his jaws.

Now, we speak quietly
among ourselves of secrets
that are beautiful & deadly,
secrets which inspire us,

then kill us. What could be
more astonishing, savage as
the moon and wolf who hunts
wildly beneath it?

Blocking Out the Light

Eyeless creature, I am
entirely made of darkness;
searching in darkness like
a midnight moth. Imagine
a body whose threads, tightening,
block out the light; perceives
the source of pain, rushes to it.
Falls asleep damaged, trembling.

Towards Morning

Take one pebble
a day, place it
in a jar- the weight
of life. Everyday
eat a peach, remembering
its sweetness. Tend
the newly planted seedlings,
open up your heart. And
late at night, each night,
pray towards morning.

The Outer Skin

I am not afraid of
snakes. Do you believe
the body is a portal?
The snake grows, but as
it grows, the outer skin
does not. I've loved so much,
feared so much; shed my coat,
resting in sunlight. Then,
instinctively, like terror
slither back into the shadows.

No Place Like Home

There is no place like
home; the river is freed,
let out of its bones.

Trees remember groves,
clouds drift away in search
of ceiling.

My grandmother rocks
steady as wind
in a wooden chair

that creaks
and groans-

lumber
of a ship

that takes her
nowhere.

Winter's Child

The boy was fragile like a newborn,
drifted down beautifully & flightless
from snow-covered hills, expectant.

Some kind of red-hue stained his lips
as if he had been drinking blood;
his hands, the claws of field-born foxes,
earth beneath his nails, as if he had

been digging graves.