baby gurl
u are my world
when i look at yur curls
the stars unfurl.
i want 2 make you my gurl
fur real
the smallest of coffers
carry uncountable coins.

I used to dream we were all like little faucets
god had supplied with finite volumes of breaths
times “I love you” could be meant,
words we’d let our others read,
and always stirred up inside
just one too many deaths.

but god out grew I am still trying
his laughs he laughs and how the stones they shake.
and god is the laugh that got out
kept on laughing
is keeping me awake.

so I stopped sleep.
thursday afternoon turned it down it went off
drips drips into words I won't say
and darkness full into the smiling face of the deep.

and how and how and how the stones they shake
my rolling in His laughter and how and how
and how.

I have never seen darkness.
and where will death find me now?

dinner was the trees
the grass the
animals doubted our sincerity.
makeshift ring temple beneath the
mighty oaks you are a
bundle of suggestions
weakly bound in twine i could
snap you open in so many words.

Even the pine trees and the cedars of Lebanon exult over you and say, "Now that you have been laid low, no woodsman comes to cut us down."*
-Isaiah 14:8


the little bird tried to fly through the screen door and I
thought, if only there were more air out here.
if only the pines in their firm feet didn't wave your hands at me.
if only there were still water
in the creek.

they spent a week like this,
driving from port town to port town.
writing down the names of truck stops.
drawing sidewalks

with chalk.

we held hands and crossed into mexico with
tongues that flick across red lips.
we spent three weeks like this, trying to weep.
but the desert drank us up
and everything was thirsty
and everything was dry.

I called you from costa rica, on tuesday
and you flew down the next night.
I had land, by the sea
and a great many trees
where I'd built a shed for you and me.

and with steady hands we sawed logs cut
our teeth on familiar skin
braced four footed, mild against the wind.
slept in sweat in a dark log room
and all the lilies tossed within.

and as I count your labored breaths, I
know now I should have never left.
but there was spice in the air and you spoke a dead tongue
and you loved me and loved me and loved me and I run.


and I said,
I want you to know you are my eyes
and anything I see without you
isn't seen at all.

and you said,
maybe we will starve here, in arms
hold nothing. spent. keep on giving.

and I said,
and maybe we will die here, in arms


when you
fail to stay alive
you must

keep on living.

evening

Maria and Mr. Riner are sitting on my bed
******* like garlands, against the wall
the words stew inside and I can't seem to
pour them out
but we three fools, sit and scribble regardless
staring blankly at the drooling clock
(persistent, in our memories).
the whitewashed cinderblocks are testament
to the number of walls
the quantity of clocks
this series of chairs
and if we close out eyes we expect to
wake up in heaven
but it's just the same old hell.

she says, keep writing
(if you feel inclined)
and slides her back into mine
but I've got no more letters in these fists
(so I'll lie and think for a bit).

she says,
I've never been a 'she' before...


morning

my coat sits in a bundle near the door
I've been trying to find a way to hang it
but I'm having mixed results, in fact
all this month I've been trying to make attachments
to these white,
white,
cinder block walls
with all manner of adhesives.
but these nightly sessions
have been ******* with the humidity

and every morning something new is on the floor.


all I can do is put them back up again.
try and
be a little more constant
with these climate fluctuations.
try and

sleep a little more, sweat a little less.

they called it a lake home because there were
no knobs only latches
with padlocks for winter.

it was spring when I left.

the water was in the arroyo
when colorado raised her snowy head
above the hills and brush of northern new mexico.

and you wept
with tears strange to me as yellow flowers
in the canyons and flatlands, laughing for water.


the truck broke down just south of Los Lunas
the smoke and steam drawn off by a fierce wind
that drove the tumbleweeds to

new lowlands. eager with seeds.