From Nothing

Sky to ocean, perfectly pieced apart,
a beautiful casket hid in perfect darkness.

Things we left unsaid "whosoever speaks of
knowing breaks the contract of the dead"

We knew but couldn't understand how deep
the disappointment. Did I mention roses

or the anchored stones that bind them?

Our shabby lives, the ackward silence;
this too is how we rise from nothing

to more of nothing.


Dragging the Bone

This is my long, narrow day,
heavy life, a sponge soaked
with water, salt & blood.

I drag my bones towards
dusty night; how dead
is dead enough?

Let those who understand
the phantom soul captured
in its shadowed house accept

its sadness. True, it's doors
are made of glass and we
of bodies, of darkness.

And I, a little horse and cart,
a road of whitened bones with
no end in sight.



Partial night, evening, outlines
of its coat the size of sky, the fur
of some dark animal, a blanket
on fire.

Careless, impatient wolves gather
from the woods, crouching knives
unsheathed and pointed.

There in clovered green, unsure,
impossibly fragile a spotted deer.

And God, standing on His hill
counts every black & purpled
feather of the bird.


The Measurement of Halves

Of course I know if love had eyes, your face
surrounds it. Why then, are rocks used
for violence or often truths morph into lie?

What does it mean to be half-broken
like interrupted light?

Yes, the hand draws back from fire, the heart
speaks less of words like hold or letting go
than hiding what its borrowed.

Half-intense, isn't pain essentially
a measure of desire?

Earthbound Lovely

Sounds of life, the groaning
superficial wounds whose origons

start deeper. The last thoughts
sunk into the dream while falling,

what animal's teeth make wounds-
maybe yours. Most certainly mine.

Not being how to save ourselves
but how to be the darkness,

how to quell our instincts
on the long way down or

where we go in shadow.

Watch the leaf, its doom-like spiral,
earthbound lovely, helpless fragile,

the mid-flight bird whose ruptured
heart breaks its final promise.


The Blind, Sad Girl

Foraging sadness, the final drop
in summer's bucket, not enough
to drink or spill.

Sleep, a form of dying; a state
of sadness, an empty basket
filled with nothing.

The dream about a quiet girl
whose senses promised blindness,
later in a separate world,

her eyes on fire, glowing moths
flutter towards nirvana.



I want to write of what is sealed:

names of the nameless, stories of
the dying, what's inside the heart-shaped
box before its opened, the meaning,

the meaning, the meaning

of everything.

I want to undress into light,
hold the uncovered wrist to its mark,
my mouth to the fire.

There are words for opening:
rupture, break out, disclosure.

In a bowl, the size of an egg,
I dip my wings and write-

the ink flows over.



Saved, not safe, living
an inch from chaos, miles
from happiness.

These hands labor
building a fence
easily toppled

like false pain from
the amputed limb,
we struggle to deny it.

Sky fills with cloud,
expecting rain. Seeds fall
like missiles convinced

their futures are set
in stone, on earth beneath
their mother's bodies.

A journey embarked is
a trek towards maybe,
perhaps or possibly.

Those who survive it
will claim their destiny-

a never-ending tryst
with disaster.


That Was Then

Quiet now, alert yet calm; the hour
of shiver & stars. Each of us violent
before the finished night, now satisfied.

What reminds us- bite marks from
either love or fighting.

See how darkness conquers light
by following it. How invisibly faith
occupies emptiness, changing it.

Not unlike the spaces in a heart
that seemed so crowded.


Killing Living Creatures to Absorb Life Essence

I'll kill a fly but not a moth
or spider. I know the bird
in the wolf's strong mouth
belongs there.

Fate is a predictable tool,
a bridle or saw or heart
whose work is obvious;

the soul's teeth chewing
its food thoughtfully-

pieces becoming parcel.



Fearing mediocrity, the star
sank deeper into darkness
without moving, the way
grief makes an ordinary man
seem exceptional.

So many bodies, no discernible light.

If love is an ocean, the abyss
it fills is heart. And sky,
with all its beauty can only
touch it.