Time shook
And the shadows hummed
An ancient cicada song
Their heavy red eyes aware
The open iron gate clanging
In the wind - off beat.
After you were gone
There was no wasted breath -
No echoes.
No footsteps searching
Just emptyness
Like a two gallon stone crock
Drained.

This is the place I asked you
Forever
The crisp cedar breeze
And Yards below
The pine canopy holds
Her breath as I reach for your hand
This is our world and nature
Hides her shadows amongst the roots.

This is the place I asked you for a future
The damp cedar air
And yards below
The pine canopy shudders and
Turns color as I grasp for your hand.

This is the place I asked for forgiveness
A harsh cedar wind
Bites but is fair
And miles below
The pine canopy cries and
Sheds her needles
As I search for your hand.

The burning brands . . .
plucked from the ashes of the fire
Are the castaways
The fragments of lives
The unworthy
The heedless . . .
are priceless to the great lover of empty souls

when I closed my eyes I saw her,
the woman traversing his dreams
like the verticality of forests
the one breaking into many
she knits the storms in his fingers
keeps the poems of dawn composed
like the sea keeps the horizon folded into itself
she wears different densities of perfume or none at all
the intensity a mirror, the warmth tangible
and unsure like a velvet smile
her bodies a road map into the serenity of clouds
she is hot like the sand - it is always wild in the light
she fills his skin with her everything again
blackness collapses into wonder
she keeps piercing the name of pain
the semiotic self is rippling into the clarity
of clay

when I close my eyes I saw him
the man traversing her dreams
the one breaking into many
echoes fractals aches &
the vitality of blues

Dear E----,

The bus crawls eastward like an insect:
silvery carapace and compound eyes,

broad-spotted blue-red with ads
as we scuttle along the curb-crumbs,

outpacing a decaying Tuesday sun.
In my thoracic seat I think of love,

its strangest colors and contours,
gentle treacheries and bridges burnt,

a wavering lawn of doubled sleep.
Tonight we dine on margaritas

in our cheap pub on the hill,
hope the questions all get answered,

touch feet under the table in secret.
I'm sure I wear at your patience

with this haircut I slashed myself,
my many stumbles of attention,

all my errors of cipher and code,
& the old hot luggage of my battles...

but you persevere. Look up -
the stars are champagne perlage

in a dark coupe, and all around
the living are dying; the dying are living.

I arrived at six for an early start,
only to find that a cloud had coughed,

spat, or birthed a fog onto the lawn,
midwifed by polearms of corn

under silver doctor's eyes
of cooling car. Beer tabs snicked

away as a giant cheerful beast
slouched and stalked us

with candy heart and whetted tooth,
snapping at pipe smoke enemies,

patrolling our hands with hope.
Lives roll along, we all find:

men and women having a hard go
of it in hornet houses, or exes

who tent us with doubt even now.
The fog has burned away and the lawless

calligraphy of insects weaves and wreathes
the rising air into which exits are engraved.

Time enough to slide the highways
back into the busy hours

of porcelain hearts - easily chipped
but good enough still for daily use.

Herein hides all discretion
behind the smooth deception
of solid things ~
For truly, we are not.

We are wavy, up and down,
woven space spun inside out,
turned right-side up,
the patterns blend
as one full Cycle starts again!

The One in All or All in One
The many dance
in Wholly thrum
A Sacred Song,
sung by the Spirit.
A blissful tune
for those who hear it.

nothing short of love
is everlasting

that blink of an eye
you the changeling

on a road of sorrows
glimpses of life eternal.