The window would be half open to a mountain then
I’ll tell you something a window is all
Half left open before the rain; every day
Though the window has changed I’ll tell you
Something about the pain. They sit they sit
With their fingers tied, the pines are tired the
Mountains are wise. The window is wide.

Then they walk like bird and awkward is all
If the dead could talk they would say; I’m frightened
Yes the raindrops fall. Someone bends the tree tops
Tall. Someone leans and whispers in my ear. I hear the
Dirt I hear the dirt.

And then, they all go home even my lover goes back
Into the house. And then she sits upon the couch. Very
Very. Tiredly she walks they rise and touch my facesometimes
Sometimes the dead awake the window the window
And thanks for coming.

But the heart, she says It is just mine they rise they rise
She climbs inside. The hospital with grey wings I know
It isn’t impossible. But it's hope and love and love and love
and love and If I could die without a kiss. The window
would be half open then to a mountain.

But first the mountains
Covered in stars, the purple peeks
The emerald cliffs. The winter’s melt;
The rush and rage, oh at mid-life
That downward pull upwards.
The stream meets the river the
River sighs, red and full of clay
(I remember the day we met like that)
Full of fish and thoughts of…
First the moon, then the tide.
Onward through naked sand
Stone, full of compressed time.
The chromatic choir plays a
Crescendo, as the raven never
Really sleeps. Then the spring
Meets the summer dry and full
Of ash. How the ancestors came
Here to pass, that bridge and
All the distance. Down
By the river, covered in a deeper
Shadow, I kneel and feel
The river at midnight.

Not long ago the black ocean
Caught my eye the deep swamp
The lonely desert, starting on the
Edges but moving inward.

A dream remembered
A billion year old smile;
The river snakes on.

Cold and quiet twisted as she was on the edges of a dream of an endless amount of stars rose like the owl before dawn dragging the dead mouse among the shattered cottonwoods above blood on the canyon brighter than a rose, sank the grief from the lungs of the infiniteness of time oceans and deserts and swamps. Could not comprehend close the gargle of mud sat in her spat of the beauty of it all watching the gnarled dress unfurl beneath her ankles canyons full of color as she descended into another sleepless smile. The river moved on

The greatest memory of then was when upon the twisted edge. and sun receding in the West with reverie and joy was met. The fangled hand the broadened shoulder, only stars were to devour night the light was doubled dull. Depending on the eye you see. The ocean at my back, the desert and the swamp and all the history of man like walking in the rain. Fickle fallowed weeds in snow soon. November will be gone, but you and I will carry on; battered and beaten forgotten like the memories of sullen stained skies, banners of our innocence. Those deeper canyons beyond reach and somewhere, somehow, the path that was laid so long ago in this soft sand of mine. The river that goes forth

The windows of the world
Are open high and through them
Blow the desert air. Inside, on dusty shelves
The batteries sleep and dream of their
Childhood, poppies in the spring
And that deep dark forest of summer.
Light through the blinds through
The windows of the world.

Out there a dry and unspoken world
So much on the promise of one word
Upon waking, startled and shaken – found the day
Again revived.