Some tree's foliage falls
earlier than others. Now,
that I'm stronger than you;

I must certainly leave you.

Through these years, I thought
my life would quicken like
a running horse; yet slowly,

the red hawk circles down.

For one brief moment,
the leaf prepares itself
for severance completely,

then joins the whirlwind.



This worldly beauty once
belonged to me: I slept,

I breathed, I loved, I hurt;
the body of this dream

will not release its tenant
soul so readily. I take

my starving heart, my damaged
will, my shackled ankles to

the secrecy of woods, broken hills.
They will not remember, call me

faithless, fugitive as shy among
the watchfull-ness of wolves.


Suicide for Love

Inside the river, between
its glistening surface
and mud-black floors
the moon suspended, neckless
gazing upward at itself.
The light on wings, blacker
crows bundled on its shores,
clinging to albino pines whose
figures lithe as dancing girls
motionless and barefoot.
And I must ask the twisted snake,
whose heart is heartless, whose
dark sad eyes have lured the living
lifeless to its toothless mouth:
Do you believe in life?


Jagged Edges

We all have wounds; you
are mine. Yes, I may be
broken but not in ruins.

Scattered glass, fractured
bones, what spills, what
falls, who tears the cloth

did not create me. So I
gather up the pieces, glue
between the jagged edges

recreating what is left
of former beauty.




I will be
happy; even if

I have to fake it.


Is it wise to examine
mortality, the thick sludge
lodged beneath the nails?

Some call it grime, others
call it evidence of living.
We claw skyward as our roots

grow down into the soil; I am
not sure we will survive
the stretching forces.


Imprinted in Snow

It was possible, almost
always never very impossible
to find the new in old things-

hoofprints dried in mud,
crusted circles of wings
imprinted in snow, the fluffy

hair of ghosts caught in
branches of the oak, the magic
door leading to the underworld.

And daily oldness brings
a fresh song, a feathered coat
of silver, a burning threshold

over which the dreamer slips
effortlessly, transforming,
shimmering and youthful.


I Am Thirsty

Knowing what will come:
blankets of dust, darkness
darker than dark, a black
pearl under a concrete pillow,
the ghostly wander the city
in search of bread.

Who will tell them they are dead
and should not wake the living?

Behind the curtain, my beloved
waits with gifts of pomegranate
and almonds. Who will tell him
that I loved him more than death
and now I love another? I am
thirsty for the river, the coldness

of the trembling stars, lonely lights
of ships sailing through the waters.


Winged Flamed

When light was born
is not known; but its pale
blue glow shifting into yellow
drags the magnolias closer
to their home. And shadows,
their pulsing umbilical cords
still attached to light struggle
for that first breath, the first
cry. In the ghastly white
anesthetized and radiant, angels
climb their ladders to the sun
and burst into flames of wing.


The Hole

Once, there was a man
who dug a hole in his
backyard, with his hands,
with a plan, a tunnel to
nirvana. Every day

his fingers bled like
sacred gloves, his eyes
adjusting to the darkness.
What did he know of night
and what it might be hiding?

Maybe he forgot the light
his blindness like the mole.
And without sight is courage
more like inner shine collecting
what it feels or holds?