your home is a twilight elegy
i am a bluebird in your backyard
weeping at the vastness
but mostly at the rocks-
every last one-

i feel your legend in my stomach,
it tides out as a windy cry song
into our children

before you come back here
twice at least holler
your charge will have vanished as it is born,
because the weight of your rifle is love

and what could blame you
for my death

there are no mistakes here, dear
nor are there endings,
only,
forever,
becoming----

so i sing

and you shoot

the sun is melting
all the forms
i thought i knew

the boats are rowing
planets in
from a black sea into
infinite blue

People yawn
As they get swallowed up
By the coming tropic cascade-
The castles of the sea-
Of everything they
And all their ancestors
Have ever felt.

It proclaims nothing but itself,
They- them- they march
Through our towns like
Kinds, gods, destroyers.

They wash through our hearts
Like childhood
Young garden memories
And suburbs,
Vague houses.

We could never hold on,
And we hardly bow.

You’re safely unaware,
I can’t catch up,
It whirls my heart with it,
And takes it to the
Deep lavender east.

somehow i became a foreigner
amongst excess of imagination
and creation.


i like old things
like sunlight
ducks
mother and sadness.

bread.

lakes, lagoon, fog.

bones

warm skin
dreaming at afternoon.

somehow they return the fullness
not above or below
but vibrating in the current of things,
spirit sailing in the melancholy mist.


everything still in its right place
still, somehow
even though we're desarraigo

but no one really had a home

and home wasn't even us.
we breathed.

soft breaths rise from two shore birds
up into a wild land
and fall back into bed

it never became anything more.

to leave my father
sixty-five and giggling easily into death
my biggest nightmare
but i left because i’m nineteen
and i wanted to giggle violently into the city
my heart will lead me back in
she’ll greet me on the porch with a lantern and paper hands
i’ll be complete and surrendered
and i’ll do nothing for this world

when was mystery
put on trial?
when did
we give up our true faith
for faith in truth?
magnificent sky;
i don't care if you're my creator,
or my killer
(which you are both);
my heart wells the same,
things must fall apart
to come together.
heart, you shall see.
it will be too much,
so just enough.

poor mind.
suckling your dry mouth
innocent eyes
wanting but pried.
are you the last to know
that mother is dead?
a time has come,
my condolences,
when time will not
hold its ends
and it will be
far too grand
for you to tie up or pretend.
poor mind.
are you the last to know
not even earth holds you
underneath your feet.

could i see what majesty fills the space?
how i breathe,
it flutters.
sweetness is
flying above us like
nymphs of sanguine laughter.
they touch down
and turn blue.

everything is inside of me. i’ve found being.
what cannot be said but only heard
what cannot be touched but only felt.

here in a vacuum of loneliness
soul streaks sky
bleeds down my legs.

the mossy moon
and running red
pounding the atmosphere

but leaving only a whisper
among the weeds on the earth
that are very, very alive

we barely can hear you
and then we lose you
and then you’re there

each time we climbed,
there came the milky step wider than the rest
and i wondered how i used to step
upon ancient claws,
grandeur above a seascape with
frills of surreality around the edges.
when i was a little girl
i jumped the platform into the ocean,
and fell impossibly a thousand feet.
now i skulk up the backside of stone,
it gets higher.
i want something new
but really exactly how it was,
that’s why i get to the top
and look up
at bleak sky

too much fulgor and fire
from some secret eros.
if god was desire,
where would my tenderness lay?

i say thank you to the world
as i weep for her state,
what have we done
to have love in my fate

maybe if I loved
poetry more
i wouldn’t be able to write it.

i don’t want to go to cafes and write
i don’t want to go on walks
i want to wake up
and feel it all

in this dark womb, it could be the center or it could be the skirt.
still glass case, nowhere else could work.
it pulled me back here.
meanwhile,
water from the forests falls into the air,
i feel it in my ancient throat.
i’m suspended.
rebirth.
bark peels, falls into wind like dead skin.
i am nothing.
slower.
i can hear again.
it doesn’t mean a thing
nor does it
not,
but
there is space.
hair blows slower like a heart.
heart catches in a slow web.
new nothing.
walk around the lake
don’t speak,
don’t even
see.

outside of my window

there is a sun.

we look at each other,

finally, into each other’s eyes.

and people screaming

and a violin streaming

as long as the ghost can see

the river, in its eyes.

the wind

knows the bottom

of the stream.

so remember that

every time you look

and don’t see.

there is no truth-

why else
over
and all
would there

be
the
deepest
light?

Are the notches of my spine
The swirling staircase
Of your home?

Did you call up my vertebrae
To hear your echo
Rain down?

Did the walls of my skin
Make you feel
Not alone?

Did you see your reflection
In the ice
Of my bowels?

Did you know
I am sick with you
And need you out
I can see you
When you're looking
In me at yourself

there is no final decision-

i saw houses and people and infinite lives all happening,

i ran by to get only a glimpse and nothing more.

the stairs and escapes and balconies and living rooms propelled my heart by something it has always, but never known,

and i think that’s what they call inspiration.

yet now i know we’re coming to an end,

still can i say we are in our right place?

there’s no smiling brother by my side

no unconditional acceptance in the drivers’ seat,

so i’m here in the city,

and the beauty

that just is

is still.

yet what was more than enough

now might not be anything

and yet, drowning,

the one breath it has left it uses to fight me.

neither of us know where or why we breathe,

but there it goes.

there’s a lot of space to fall in my heart
that’s what i love so much
it seems to go forever
and it does