lonely streets of sidewalks

and crossing the cracks
your heart beats for a heart

that beats no longer for you.
  
double crossed
and the cold fire is calling,
the cold fire burning,
a flame frozen in thought

and a wilderness of shadow

and the wild dog howling
into the wind,
the night howling like a dog
from within your heart.

the white flower pedals slowly falling
like snowflakes

and the gulls striking the top of the sky
and the vastness, stars adorned,

the white flower pedals falling
like snowflakes.

those flower pedals,
and the night blows Claire a goodbye kiss.

Searching for Galileo,
    the race to be first home,

In a sea of patients
    we climb the probability tree,
    walk upon the shore collecting
      memory shells,

We win the little wars,
     lose the big fight,

These windows are breathing apparatus,
     this ceiling, a blur of tungsten sky,
     rain, tears, weep,

To rest near to you,
     the technicolor sleep,
     and I died with you,

All farewells are sudden.

grey stone sky, ghost clouds crying to the wind,
remembering the distant wave.
the moon was the whitening mists of time,
was the quiver of a musical note,
her broad branches silver seas,
her caverns quiet visions of light.
i stride the shores of oblivion where
dark ages hide, where the ocean falls,
i capture infinite moons in my
mouth, capture something bright,
something of you that i bless,
something of you that grows out
of the dark, glimmering like a night frost,
midnight stars dipped in a clear lake
and as the surface gleams and reflects,
how the water ripples in little blue tides.

out of the night, the softening rain dripping
from leaves and memories hanging like stars
in a northern sky, everything sank to the sea,
sinking in night and song and silence.
everywhere was still, no climbing to the dawn,
no old ghost singing winter to the sky.
it was time to leave, time for the grey ghosts
to crumble, time for the rose beds to sleep.
the morning dew is the water's flowers,
the early frost is the marbling of the earth,
we're pushed to emptiness by the iron-hinged wind,
melt in caves where the shadows lie hid.
from your hair, the glistening drops of rain,
from the air, the flight of a bird,
terrible and black the dark clouds,
where the night utters vowels its voice full of stones,
and its breath an empty pail once filled
with water and the kiss of the moon.

I want to transform you
Making you like new
Sparkling with a pink glow

Difficult things tainted you
Turned you almost blue
With a sickly pale

A bad smell clings
A smell of death
I want to make you live

But as the French say:
“Il n’y a pas plus sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre.” -
“There’s no one as deaf as the one who doesn’t want to listen.”

si lence of snow

the for the how

be said ghosts un

too much so fold

There is slow ly.

the moon, shrunken, faint
as pencil, as if the wild nettles
of night carried her loads.
her glazes the raptures of
dancing stars.
her stencil mark a white crescent
leant on cloud.
the trees shudder in the
wind, break their promises,
forgive no one.  
the tide listens to her rhythms,
traps them in water, distils
her victories, unwraps the dark,
stretches it out.