one, no
way, no
wall.
there is no
well, no
we, no
within.
there is no
will, no
with, no
wild.
there is no
would, no
wind, no
wonder.

the bus snaked along beside forested beaches
where old men watched and
when they caught one, shot
the local cats

when we arrived at night
at a peninsula with an array of windblown grey buildings
it seemed cold and bleak: so I laughed
loudly and said "How Puritan!"
to show that we would force our brightness
on this place

one of the boys thought I was here to get married
and have a driving test. I said no,
I'm old enough that I've done both,
driven and loved enough to
feel unsafe with them both.
we found the lights to turn on
and the radio. I went off in search
of the wherewithall to make
liquored tea.

and walking down the wooden hall I longed
for a sweet cat to hold against
my chest.

sitting inside the air loom,
weaving my fingers through the rippling warp,
a little song sung by each traveling strand

and today I've woven a tapestry of fantastical someone
and his warm, calm regard
and the open walls he builds
to complement the light

sitting inside the garden spaceship,
the sky in my eyes and the jungle at my back,
whispering sweet exhalations against the wide windshield

I fly into a story of fantastical someone
and he's climbing over mountains to see what he finds
and his open heart is a mouth and an eye
open and scanning the horizon for a glimpse of a memory of mine

let go of your heart,
let it out of your fist.
let the blood travel in its natural exhilaration.
it knows the way.
(it knows every way.)
look away, let your eyes
rest awhile.
you know the way.
your heart is transforming, transformed
from a pump to a seed,
transforming utterly
into a new being.
grow to the sky.
go coursing forward.
you know the way.
(you know every way.)
rest your voice awhile.
let it change--
let it travel through your body,
let it be transformed.
the love in your heart
can transform worlds
even when
you have covered it utterly
for
it knows the way

call me, I'm nowhere
and you might
draw me out of the white
into a point of light

call me, lay out the path
what seems small to you
is a new universe to me

in the night in the dark
i will shape with my hands
a round word
to roll to the underworld.

sleep's wings fan over my face
making a smaller night.

the word rolled away.
now again I'm left
with a small mouth
and dry eyes.
nothing to say nor cry.
once upon a time
I made my own wonders.
now I am
squeezed out between
worlds.

somewhere at the bottom of the sky
is the promise of divine indifference
and I go jumping after it
desperate for the blackness

explain this knife's wound.
gaping and jagged
and, surely,
without cause.
empty, too, look--
inside there is no substance,
only sound, vibration, shuddering,
flickering, shattering, glimmering, deafening

explain this knife's wound.
always secretly my mouth hanging open
in imitation of it.
no words come out though.
if they did it would only be a call
to close up the wound and
suffocate its interior.

explain this knife's wound.
fear on its edge
though no knife.
that was tossed aside long ago
no longer needed
since the wound opens anew
every night.

make no mistake
we look for what's funny
when it's not funny.
we look for the humor
on the edge of despair.
it's always there.
alone, we struggle to survive
though we're fine.
and that endless loneliness
is humorous.

somehow you
still have a hand
on my heart,
though what part I
don't know--
you are
passionate yet
disinterested,
sudden and
deceptively
straightforward--
yet I
know you
somehow
past your
rigidity
and can't help
but want to
caress your
lonely
impulses.