Brown Rice and Beans

Bread for him, wine
for her- a small kitchen
in the house of dream,
of darkness. And so

they gather for a prayer,
quiet, calm but hungry,
recite their prayers, napkins
folded by a priest. Fish,

brown rice and beans.

Orange Blossoms

The wrists unfold, softly
as the bud's tight fist unravels
to the gradual light. It is
a decent happiness to be alive.

What worries me is hour's stale
bright outline. The heat becomes
a furnace in the heart. Soon wilting,
all petals charred and coiling.

And now the gardener with sterile
gloves, clips the stem and bough
sending all the birds away, pores
and cracks puckering, sapped over,

the smell of orange blossom.

Proof

Bleeding again, this body hides
its scars from the inside, a
natural cauterization to each
vein, each artery. What dwells

in the eyes, windows in a house
where immovable chairs collect
dust, creaking, dried wood
and nails betrays proof of life.

They recently said "there's life
on Mars". Carbon monoxide, mountains
and valleys, the face of a man
looking outward. Proof or is it?

On Dark, Sad Earth

Forgive yourself, beloved,
I know what haunts you.

There is a place where
fathers leave their sons,

you cannot heal your wounds
by loving all your children.

Forgive him, my beloved,
for the scattered seeds

on dark, sad earth,
harsh winters, the first

snow fallen like white
rice in the fields.

Release me, my beloved
from your memories as

I no longer struggle
to extinguish yours.

Separated

We are folded together,
fleshed origami

or spaces

between cut-out dolls
where the arms should be.

I warned you
of fusion, of kiss,

of dipping
into bowls
with your fingers,

the reflection
of someone-else
standing behind you
in a mirror.

Only God survives
extrication
(de-bone-ing)

the silvered skein
that shines pearl
and purple.

So we slowly
unravel, a little toy,
a top, a spool of thread,

to become
what we are not-

separated.

Attraction

Envy of the man with few words,
coarse hands, his heart fugitive

to joy. Late into the quiet night
he wonders if the stars have meaning,

more than his. More than pain,
more than burning. And then

the window to his bedroom draws
a desperate swarm of moth.

Valentine

It is not enough
to love or is it?

What muscle moves
to light and darkness

equally?

Whose mind soars
and dives repeatedly

in clear blue-purpled skies?

Finally, the heart
says yes, the heart

and mine.

This Morning

Underneath morning's cloak
the song of birds, the cold
night's stones, the shy hands
of light emerge fresh and willing.

Tell me what day this is
outstretched and shaking
like river reeds, a nerve
of green and yellow.

What is this gift of silver
ladder, crystal thorns of
vining promise, thawing hills
that lead me onward?

Immersion

On this cliff, in rain,
ocean below, sky weeping

I fling myself forevor
into storm and ripple

a tiny stone skipping
over water.

If

If soil were words:
rich, brown, grainy
root and blossom.

If leaves were birds:
tender little spirals
of feather.

If clouds were flower:
white magnolias blown open
then away.

If stars were fire-flies:
bright, shiny bodies
burning.

If hearts were planets:
enormous orbs of valley,
mountain quietly

collapsing.

Spirit World

Just as our eyes were beginning
to value what they've captured,
the light is retreating.

What is painful in life becomes
numb in the flickering shadows;
body clings to skin and bone.

And then great wings, white-fur
feathered limbs reaching out and in
lift us naked, blind and shivering

into the spirit world.

What Guides Us Home

No one understood when we heard:
take these bones and prosper.

We are slowly dying by our own hands.
The wind is gone; what it carried is gone.

Without us can nature bear its cruelty towards
its own or are our angels cutting out their hearts,

passing into fire like the sacrifice of moths?
Wait for night, evening homage, listen to

its black guitar, silvered flutes, haunting songs;
even as we're lost they guide us home.

Throat of the Bird

...and they came creeping,
slabber-ing dogs [death]

or some lone hyaena
ostracized from the pack

stalking a way in, a way back;
the civilized days are gone.

Somewhere in nature,
a creature is dying.

Nowhere in nature is written:
"reverence will sustain you".

The snow sets, high, now,
sounds of its silence

deafen the ear,tightens
the throat of the bird

that sings loud, that sings
loud and lives.

The Spark

Sometimes it's difficult,
obese with intentions
starving for deeds, my life

like an artichoke, each stiff,
waxy layer peeled; and Death
like salt and lime rimming

the ring, grainy white, green.
What am I to do? The fire says:
change the space between living

and ceasing to burn, thought
followed by action, forces
the heart to be tested, strained

like two sticks rubbing eachother
fiercely together in the woods,
in the night, in the rain.


in the woods, in the rain.

White and Cold

There are reasons why
your hands are white
and cold. What have
you held and who is
holding you? Take note

from soil clinging to
its trees and flowers;
how it swallows, mourns
its dead by building
more. Or the sea

that wide-mouthed lion
devouring its offspring
regurgitating seals and
seaweed on the grave of
littered, rancid shores.

Now our bones picked over
in the pile, reserve no sense
of heat, desire. It is hands,
the heart, their constant need
for flame and fire.

The Sweet, Great

Once, I wrote: the sweet, great
heartbreak remains. Past years,

past thoughts like wild flowers
choked in tall grasses, weeds,

still the heartbreak, the secret
weeping. Even that strange blue

light ahead offers no reprieve.
Now I write: the stars are guilty,

the moon conspires towards my grief,
wings of moths beat against my window,

endlessly, are messengers of sweet.

Maybe

There are prayers
that no one prays;
stairs never climbed,
stars whose light never
passes through the eye-

you are one of them.

And so like curtains
filtering the room
keeping out mornings light
or like black bulls who die

beneath a fighter's cape.

If only I had suffered
more, held you longer in
a snowstorm, drowned myself
in dreams of fire, maybe

you could love me now.

Today, I Thought

Today, you came back again
full of pain and glory. Should
I release what you had been
to what you always were?

So many stones to steal
from a jealous surf whose
loving hands shaped them
into jewels, a gentle chisel.

And you are like the sea, rolling
in, then rushing back. My human
heart wanting desperately to hold
you still, to call you back.

With Grace

A soul and its body wake
in blue-inked sweat. One
is filled with incandescence,

the other carries nerves.

To find words for: spirit, air,
invisible, we must wait until
our hearts unfold themselves with

pollen-laden hands, petals beckoning.

A soul and its body , fused flame,
rosy fire, two embers glowing
in the spaces between them,

an impervious union, to keep
the heart-strings tight, attached
always moving, clinging to eachother.

Moon

The moon looks down,
its pocked complexion
like teenage acne,
its blurred features,
a bride beneath her veil.

The Hungry Night

All night our hunger is limitless.
The things that stalk the wood
gnashing teeth, stomachs shrunk
with emptiness, grow desperate.

Past smaller trees, darkness
is a skin, self-possessed, swimming
in blackness like blackness itself,
flames of its eyes like embers,

its red hair changing colors
in the shadows. And what we hunt:
things the soil made and gifted,
a small, tenacious life, a will

to live forevor. As hunter and
the hunted meet with noses heavy
breathing, claws clicking on the stones
the only difference between them-

who will eat and who is eaten.

In the Name of Nature

Black wolf waits in his domain
with glittering crystal trees
pristine, diamond-crusted snow.

He does not have a name;
he is grateful for it.

A dog moans, an old whale turning
in the grey-blue deep, his wail
muffled in moisture-laden clouds.

He has a name; he cannot bear
to hear it.

There, in twilight mist, dancing
in on dew-soaked shoes, silver cloak,
in blankets unifies the beasts

and calls them by their nature.

The Language

They say poetry is like breathing:
inhale, exhale, the way the heart
pulls in what it's learned then
shares it with its hungry body.

All beauty is not light-filled,
dark words too have artistry;
they bring what they have captured
and lay it at our feet.

As we dream in poetry, a brilliant
heat, birds, the moths, swirling stars
compete to kindle us. On a white
piece of paper, the ink is blood.

Owl

When you hear the night-owl,
he's saying: essence, hunger,

instinct. What makes him call
from the black forest, his voice

low and lovely like a siren?
He obeys the duty of his body,

his wide, strong wings, his large
moon-like eyes. And when he swoops

tracking the shivering rabbit,
tearing its flesh with his beak

he carries his noble body
back to the mystery of trees.

Collecting Beauty

In the quietness of years,
years looking back, looking

forward, the eye loses its place
in darkness and blinds itself.

In the room that I was given,
I collect beautiful things:

a green and wispy dragonfly,
a silver snakeskein, pieces

of honeycomb, thin as paper.
Before bedtime, I unlock

the windows to let darkness
fly in; a bottle on my nightstand

to trap it.