Morning light breathes
life into every flower,

reflecting odd geometries
that follow me hour to hour.

Between each step scattered
on the coniferous ground,

are my dreams, forgotten
inside a still, dark pond.

Searching noon for new eyes
is the easiest task, I feel,

when one forgets
what isn’t real.

And as I kneel at dusk,
with pockets full of daylight,

uncertainty shields me
from the river trailing behind.

A devouring gush of blue moves
inside the chest of twilight,

and all that I held dissolves
into a thousand new eyes;

and all that I fear becomes
what brings the night alive.

I am a fool to think
I ever walked alone,

for you are everywhere—
and you are here, too.

Only a certain eye lets me sleep;
one remains open to slowly

recall where to begin.
Opal veins become like a wild sea

course with a stream of stars
from these wounds widening.

Something more real than I lives
in the abyss that pulls on all things,

and yet my soul glows brighter
when it is darker still.

The cold end of a knife

is a hail storm—

a biting reminder

of why one cut

runs deeper than disaster.

How loud,

each thundering heartbeat!

How silent,

the fall of a thousand fears.

When your body

is inside the eye of a storm

long enough

for each howl to cut through

everything, then

you’ll know how to breathe

out without bleeding.

When you’re free

of all the things you have seen,

come outside—

the wind

is a dance of good things.

Soft, unsharpened things.

Things that do not ask

to be survived.

The sun leaps
into responsibility,

freshly pressed and dripping
another delectable day

into me.
Though sleep knows,

and has always known—
I am still not ready.

Under a spell
of honeyed flowers,

I have dissolved
into the dew of night,

limbs disguised
under a river of silk,

stitched together
with the same spider

that spun the night
I spun myself in.

I know better than
to stay in this cocoon,

untwined enough
to slip one foot

into the hyacinth breeze
and unthread a hundred dreams

from heavy eyes.
What keeps me occupied is

to finish the day
that has yet to begin,

to bat the unease
out of creased pillows

and shake the fears too,
so all dust surrenders

to the peace
between everything.

I let my shadows dance
on porcelain walls

and into
the infinite window,

where the oldest light
that silently lights

the distant meadow fields,
lights the cracks of this room

and waits—

and continues to wait
for me.