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the stone falls
from light and shadow
through an eightfold heaven
and a few battered stars

it sleeps aching
in moss and mold
we
the pac-man attics,
the car salesmen,
the beer drinkers
and presidents,

we the singers of easy chairs,

we the super communists,

the national park aficionados,

the holy laughers in windows,

we the public, the mob,
the crowd, the traffic,
the mozarts and the martin luther
kings, we who catapolt despair
on electricfied walls, building
the hysterical democracy
of a billion things a day,

chasing moses up the mountain,
devouring buddha,

folding in our back pocket,
the gettysburg address,
gasping for freedom

away from the fresh air scrolled
away in a blabber
of liquid crystal and decay.
I have just been born
only as the day before

and the wild berries hang
swelled upon the patient branch, in land
nobody owns, and I whistle

as the bee makes honey. Out
of my mouth, I whistle through
my happy tongue, otherwise rude

in a silent human crowd. Here,
it is easy to accept
what is.
She says:  "morning comes
with coffee"
and we sit at the bay
window where we can see
finches leap from branch
to branch and watch the Sunday
traffic towards gospels and eggs.

We hide our hands under
the table and touch fingers
and knees, and we smile
tiny sips bringing us
closer to our parting day
upon the earth we both
know, brief with stillness
shaking the wind.  

I hold my thoughts in the flavor
of her mouth and the tone of her
skin, and how it has been with
the earth for some time,
how we both know the sound of rain
and how saplings turn into trees.

Yet our words are of our mothers
and fathers, the climbing
of childhood and university,
the faith of our mountains,
the swerving air we both breathe.
my fire burns at midnight.
the eye of the ocean awakes,

a blink with every flicker.
dolphins swim and sing in the yellow

orange pool of the iris. wails wallow
and crash with the crackles and pops.

this torch is no match for her.
she closes her eye,

takes the flame,
and just leaves me smoke.
She let
the calm wind
into her home.
She knew
it would find
its way around
the small spaces,
the breakfast nook,
the chest
containing
all the music
counting
her memories.
She knew
it would breeze
past all
the familiar
portraits
now new.  

She wanted it
to hold her
and kiss
her lips,  
and she found
its gust
breathing
with the water
and wine
she drank
and bathed in.  
She watched
it swirl around
her back room
and cover all
her untouched
haunches
before she opened
the front door
to let it rise
back into
the air.
that is where the water goes,
with the few clods of earth at the bottom
of the neglected window box.

the daisies it once pointed towards the sky
succumbed to frost
and its rosemary went well with lamb chops.

but after two untouched years
most of its soil washed away.
its hickory is patient, it holds no memories
and still catches the rain.
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