PROCESSIONS that lack high stilts have nothing that
catches the eye.
What if my great-granddad had a pair that were
twenty foot high,
And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern Stalks
upon higher,
Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence
or a fire.
Because piebald ponies, led bears, caged lions, ake
but poor shows,
Because children demand Daddy-long-legs upon This
timber toes,
Because women in the upper storeys demand a face at
the pane,
That patching old heels they may shriek, I take to
chisel and plane.

Malachi Stilt-Jack am I, whatever I learned has run wild,
From collar to collar, from stilt to stilt, from father to child.
All metaphor, Malachi, stilts and all.  A barnacle goose
Far up in the stretches of night; night splits and the
dawn breaks loose;
I, through the terrible novelty of light, stalk on, stalk on;
Those great sea-horses bare their teeth and laugh at the dawn.

i found you in the ocean
                                                                                   your eyes treading water
                                                                                       your hair lost gold
swimming out to sea
                                                                                        turning back once
                                                                                        to beckon me onward
i swam until my arms were too tired to move and
when i looked back i could no longer see the shore
                                                                                         you were waiting
and you broke me apart with your words
i nodded
breathless from the wound and exhaustion
my head turning toward the sky
and slipping below the waves
i watched the creatures of the deep glide by
seeing clearer than ever before
you put me together with your lips
and met me at the ocean floor

483

A Solemn thing within the Soul
To feel itself get ripe—
And golden hang—while farther up—
The Maker’s Ladders stop—
And in the Orchard far below—
You hear a Being—drop—

A Wonderful—to feel the Sun
Still toiling at the Cheek
You thought was finished—
Cool of eye, and critical of Work—
He shifts the stem—a little—
To give your Core—a look—

But solemnest—to know
Your chance in Harvest moves
A little nearer—Every Sun
The Single—to some lives.

Counting each petal as it falls
For each is entirely
their own delicate fragment of beauty
If only I could admire them all

Their candy sweet, summer born perfume
someones turned the lights on again
my life simply, smoothly resumed

Looking back, I dont know how I could ever live a life so consumed- in anything but the blushing pearly hues that form so subtly as each magnolia bud begins to bloom.

I could sit here forever with you.
and enjoy every single one of your treasures
if you'd allow me to.

I want to get lost in you.
For lovely, there's a little piece of magic
in everything you do.
You've got me under a spell with the way your lips move, or the way your throat purrs when you sing me your lullabies and blues.

Small paradise, outside the old family house, beneath the sacchrine flowered tree
It's so beautiful to be in love with you

So beautiful, that you're in love with me.

Maybe I'm ready for the end of the world
Or maybe I'm just impatient.
Today was supposed to signify a magnitude of things;
Mostly our love.
But the suns dancing overshadows what should've been.
I'm waiting for it to be cold again
To once more reflect unshattering icicles
Replacing my heart.
I'm too tired and you're too far away.
This is a waiting game
And I am losing.

alight a path of excited neurons
saved by corporeal fuses
sacrificed fried to save
my head from overloads all the
amperage storing up
Danger High Voltage!!!

flows inside from too much reality.

I need your alternating current
to mediate my DC.
To my Tesla, like, you are , Miss Whitman.
To your Edison I am but one spark of Voltaire.

You sing of electric bodies ten million volts.
I imitate Voltaire as he did Virgil.
If someday we should unite,
our sparks would alight on eternity.