Lightly my fingers rest on the letters
hoping to coax  out of them
a lyric or a prayer to end this day.
I love these letters
who open the universe,
who touch the cheek of God
and fall here like shooting stars
or small planets
for you to see.

I miss a stone and step into the shallow stream
like a child hoping for an adventure
from his misstep into the clear water
where he can fall into the sky
and ride a cloud to Odessa
Pikes Peak or north to the Cascades.

I remember when the soles of my feet
were calloused from running across lawns
sidewalks and streets to play
ball or adventure into the nearby field
where we fashioned a fort our of tall sticky ****
and made up rules for initiation into our club.

What a life I find in these letters
who surrender to my touch so easily
what a symphony to match the music of Mahler
coming across the net falling here into my ears
like undeserved grace.

black locust firewood, gathered by a

hillock of men--with axes & spades for

arms.

inversely dug out, to dig in--deeper.

the ointments of sleep applied to their

eyes--left open, right closed--right open,

left closed.

left/right open.

though they see nothing of this.

when the pit is gutted--the men divide,

into semicircles.

heaping *****-fulls of earth over their

shoulders.

to ceremonialize the short of the long, the

long of the short.

they then ignite the bonfire of black locust

firewood.

about face, & wander off far enough to

disavail appearance.

which's when naked women appear--who

see nothing of this.

drunkenly slip into the bonfire, the curing

of semicircles.

the long of the long...winter, sees all of this.

solstice.

Surely, that sunset is only
his lemon heart falling down

the globe. Love, how you draw the red
from his aorta, smear it

over his center. Surely, this slow sneaking
darkness is only ink spilling to grieve

his beloved—see how metaphors rip that fluff
to constellations; their twinkle would trace

her torso; her treasures; her tales.
& earth would shut its mouth

to listen to his star-studded silence,
would stare as color fades

to soul. Surely the sky is not
so different from me.

[PLOT
          on the green / on Cemetery Row]

A stroll
through Carthage stones.:

Gargoyles in grey gloamings
of Autumns
of Winters
of the remains of days
the done-buried
keep secret in rigor mortis  
kiss

the grave
pushing up daisies, the cherished
our cherubs below tombstones
there lays

In green tarmac flights
On crucifix runways

Mausoleums with eyes
of pyramids and storms
houses the ravens watching ghosts
from above just ants below,
beneath undulating fog-cotton lakes

Upon the soil and worms and
souls
           mausoleums...

As granite angels mime
upward in prayer
waiting in the weight of the lifeless
wake
    white marbled expressions

The consternation
    of devil may care

None for statues or with halos
the captured hearts in boxes,
coffins / the inmates
                                American gothic
Gallows
Caustic the silences, secret speak
Life once stories of beams of light
Such vibrant lives afire
(now mere half paragraphs)
in respite / Despite
unforgiven mires

[On a plot of green
in cemetery row...]

Gargoyles in the mist
these arrested flights

of wish dismissed
of effulgent life

through the spindle of an hourglass
spider-webs of fog

where I share my path
Here the haunted besides (roaming)
a land of quietude
                 futures devoid yet still turning
The cyclic times
The unlearned
The dreaded cold below
[On a plot of green, Cemetery row...]

Rest will happen
but my spirit is a phoenix

Great flocks of birds
Asphodels

Whilst
taking a stroll...
Past plots of green,
        In cemetery row
How such silences scream :
         the fallen :
death's blanket of snow.

[Carnage. &. Stones.]

What is a man?
Who shapes his words
                      His worth
Like the loudest shouting
Empty with meanings?
Manifesting a destiny...

Who is the man
We all look up to
When it is the Sun’s shine
The days arise.
How can a (running) man ?

And where in the dark pitch night
         Where men are blind
Even by their unkept
Word.
What is a man
But a caged bird?
Manifesting ...
Song.