Whirlwind

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.

Shackled

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.

Actress

Today

I will be
happy; even if

I have to fake it.

Dislocation

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?

The Bloom

In breaking light, cracks open,
a crumbling shell, easily
opened like distant clouds
drifting into pairs. And earth

dark history who buries men
and wolves, down a thousand miles
down where even shadows quickly
suffocate, disappear. What of glory,

the start of spring, a sweet
blood-smell clinging to leaves,
the sleeping root, the porous stones?
Again, the unheard resurrection of

our souls, the sprout, the bloom.

Though You are Fading

I have loved and still I am
afraid. Look at stars buried
in their sky; one part light,
the other sleeplessness.

Night, the house where hearts
are laid to rest; our fathers
walked away and we were left
to find eachother. Like stars

always in their beds, imagined
or otherwise, making light or
stealing it. Remember, that we
had loved and that will save us.

The Bullet

It took milliseconds
for the bullet to

leave the barrel.

It knew like kingfish
plunging seaward, it knew

of destination.

In that target's
plea for attention

where metal meets

soft tissue, thin plates
of bone, receives its guest,

abandoned what it had
owned and fell.

Save Yourself

I build a ladder to your heart;
each rung a journey into darkness.
I cannot save you from yourself
or me from sadness.

There is a place filled with light,
instinctive and wild. It's not easy
to survive its scorching heat. I
cannot save you from your weakness

or me from truth.

Waiting for the Angel

They are waiting for us.
First to seal the soul
inside its skein. Secondly,
to tie us to our dreams.

Even love can sin, sleepless
and lonely, uncovered, enduring.

Lastly, they swoop down,
a great winged bird to rip us
from our beds. This is
just the beginning.

Remember

In the distance (where we always are)
a train horn wails. It is a lonely

sound like a renegade wolf from
some far off hill. Both are calling:

one to warn, the other to will itself
into the consciouseness of others.

This time there is an answer though
its language is foreign. Steel

and fur are not so different. When
we are born, we know how to cry;

our relationships are real and pure.
As we get older, more silent pauses,

introspection that leads to guile.
On a bed in Kansas, I hear coyotes

a mile away, the whip-poor-wills,
the crickets as they strum their legs

and in the distance a train horn.

Then, I Dreamt You

In the language of light,
I tell the stars: wait for me.

The woman in the shadows of a room
with her heart on fire is me without you.

My hands, scorched from reaching
too far, burn like wood, like gasoline,

like paper. And I remember who came
to my rescue, a creature of night,

all teeth and wings, claws and blood.
Now I wish I had not dreamt you or

trusted that you'd let me live.

A Miracle

I can stand on a cliff or
down below the waterline
and still see God. Once,
I saw a woman jump off
a bridge. I could not
stop her. There are good
ways to live and bad ways
to die. Who will forgive
the desperate? What weight
surrender? For myself, I
keep my eyes half-open like
a wolf at night. I keep
my heart in its bony shell;
I train my wings like a
migratory bird. I stand
on the bridge like a miracle.

Twilight

The woods are burning. Fields
are burning. Beautiful red ruins
of dusk blazing into blossom.

What do I know of death, of dying?

Light has closed her drowsy eyes,
climbs into the black-veined branches,
quickly dies. A golden-shadowed moon

stirring up the speckled moth, graceful
multitudes of crane fly, midnight flowers.
Night takes them all into its mouth

without a conscience, swallows.

The Satyr

Humour me, I asked the beast,
sit and speak awhile. In my eyes
curiosity, in his a wily smile.

What is man? I asked him.
He spat into his open hand,
rubbing dirt into the spittle-
This is man.

What is life? I asked him.
This is easy to explain, he forced
my hand into the fire,
Life is pain.

Gifted

In my youth I was a long sleep,
a coma, a darkness. At night
my ghosts would come with
hatchets and knives, an army
of thieves who swindled my faith.

One by one I called their names:
pride, hunger, love, terror. One
by one I cut their arteries before
they had severed mine completely.

Let them lie like reddened stones.

Now I am a woman, healthy,
bright eyed; my heart has healed,
fog has lifted. See how clear
the senses sweeten with passing
time? I am alive, alive and gifted!

Sand

We are human, tiny flecks
of sand among many sands,
our small bodies intimate with
the world, the sea, the sun;

our lone journey out into
oceans, nudged and pulled,
then discarded hurriedly
on strange and distant shores.

Even shells, their pearly
mouths, pink and violet eyes
are touched invisibly and
kissed by salty waters.

When evening comes, sky
a million colors, it is
our prayers and constancy
cements us to eachother.

Midnight Rider

This is psychological. In a dream
that is not a dream I rise from

my blankets and there are wolves
blackened faces, wire-like fur,

their light-soaking eyes follow me
to the field where we keep horses.

A two year old quarterhorse I raised
myself, anticipates our midnight rides,

his long slender legs, thick muscled
neck, beautiful velvet nostrils

blowing ice-cold mist. And here
we are, species who could not be

more different. Here beneath
the blackened sky, the moon

a jealous spectator we gallop
and fly like a single organism

clinging to eachother.

Stay Awake, my Heart

I don't want to sleep, tonight,
I know it will be the end of you.

And me, like some sad, old woman
who should have kept her eyes open,

like a wild brown owl focused on
a blind, oblivious victim. I want

to swoop down, tonight, a night
in the seasoned past, the night you

disappeared in cold, white flame
breaking my bones in the beak of

your mouth and never returned.

Sequestered

And I knew I would carry you,
ignorant of myself, even to that

last cold house whose doors
are frozen shut, whose windows

do not see out. I should be
grateful, then, that the you

have forgotten me, a prisoner
to myself. How could you

understand you have betrayed me
where love is some dark animal

dying in its steel-toothed trap,
the irony of mourning for

that which kills you?