Language ends here -
in the hazel of her,
in uncountable sleeps,
in a bundling of sun,
in a resonance,
a stray violin.

Look, up in the clouds
full of black horizontals;
a night is born

in little dawdles,
in brown day bank gasps,
earliest stars bowling to break.

I am here, with you, under it;
planning to grant you
the little pictures

that you so desire.
This chapter belongs
to us; to us.

Look, left of the moon,
by the rain steeples;
a night is born.

He had that
groaning soul
loneliness, like a
puffy white cloud,
floating aimless, and
aching toward the
black abyss--that gray sky
sadness;
like he was
five years old and just
watched his dog get
hit by a car.
You could smell
the pain--taste it,
like potato chips on a
sore throat.
It smelled like a
basement or cobwebs.
I told him, "Nothing will heal that crap,
just time and dirt."
He didn't blink,
and his soft walnut eyes
flashed
crossword confusion.

Mortal pink to gray crest -
the fox sun and cloud hedge
advance thin as wax,
strew frost on the yard,
& wrist peach away,
as light leaks, hours ahead.

Nightfall on the Sound,
Houselights come on one, two, three...
At last! I can write.

Some yellow has gone,
bleeding in the valley.

Night lisps forward,
soft as ether,

as blossoms of bay laurel.
The moon stains the east,

& errant glimmers
founder in the cloud ditches.

The trees gather ice,
pages of silence,

smeared with identity.
Let this winter end

with an escape -
let this blood gallop

from black lots filled
with daggers of self.

Move me to
the necklace of river -

away from this inheritance
that stirs the dark.