all that's alive
are my hands and lips

the rest is vinery


there's nothing to touch
the brain to tips

just a bested line in me


we're empty enough
swollen rosen-hips

lust's a slow findery

How could I service the demons?
So colorful is the score.

I forgot my place once writing began.
What the hell is a poem for?


(mind your head,
once the elephant said,
"such ego will stain the door")

the shrouds are soiled,
without defense,
the curdled salve is laid.

no time is spent
without pretense,
the just of karma's paid.

we wallow in,
and swallow shouts,
with efforts all but flayed.

so born to age
through wrestling bouts,
and expressions left unplayed.

deadpan,

    fix the light
       in the hall.


slowscan,

    take a flight
       reap a fall.


longstand,

    shorten sight
       drop the call.


wait the rain
    wait the rain
    
           wait the rain

your form
was made
for my eyes

your memory
for my mind

      the fruit will never rot

      
                             it will only disappear

That there won't be another
is no longer what it was.

I knew the you you were
though now know what I've become.

The thorns of roses faded,
the salt of oceans dried,
allude to consolations:

to what was our love tied...

I close one eye now
to focus things close.

Somehow,
I've grown older than you,
though not outgrown you.

I'm no river.
I am the sand.
And you, merely the ocean.

And in no way now,
might we ever help each other.

I close one eye now,

just one.

engage me
low-late,

little tongued Leaf,
now the pocket's
in the shade
in the den.

i'm the length
of a dream,
on a left-hand path,


you're the dots
in the ink

we're the When

I was a lateral,
and ticking.
I saw the seams
in you.

You were the new
becoming.
I was
the precious you.


Stop reflecting,
keen sister.
You were
what I sought.

Be now
transparent, lover.
Become what
I have caught.


Such crystalline seed,
have I projected thus far.

So I sit now in silence,
to see just what
things are.

a face,
a voice,
a warm touch,

I will allow myself
to fall in love will all things

as I self-agree to act with non-clinging.


the clouds will pass as lovely,

should I suffer to grasp?

I am you are tree

If all is coincidence

Then I may be leaf

You didn't leave
      the way
          you thought you did.


             I realize.


Thus

     I move through,


                    instead of on.

There is a warm strangeness
                   that I hope will fade
     once I walk out under the sun.


The coffee is cold, but finished.
                        My mind feels bigger,
                                                 though emptier.


                              Acceptance comes before peace.
                 I am of the river,
and in it.

Sometimes,
I am the weather.


                         I might begin twisting,
                          and touch ground,
                              and leave only a line
                of disruption, sometimes
destruction.


                        I might throw off light-
                                      waves of genuine intensity,
                a Sun's love,
                                         a heat that sends some
                           to cover.


       I might loom large and dark,
til splitting open, to rain.
                                                And wait to think
                                                   on what fruits
                                                  that might bear.



I am
    sometimes the weather,

             not lonely,


                      only wondering,



               what other fronts

                      might be embraced.

you're knots,
you're feathers,
you're tall-stones and rings

no longer the cleverly low

the tart,
the burn,
and memorly things,

the mooniest shadow of snow


you raced,
you lost,
you learned the cost

your being, a needley find

as a shed
for rust,
love-oxides trust,

and your Evers is oxygen pined

She had worked five days that week,
not to mention all that needed tending to
in regard to house and children.

But now, save the soft leak
of birdsong through windows,
the house was quiet and still.

She felt a laziness
in body and mind,
and allowed it.

She found herself on the bed,
giving the woven blanket purpose
as it held her, giving her warmth.

There was no concern for
how long this moment would last,
nor for how much rest might be gained.

There was only
presence, breath,
and allowance.