If given some lycanthropy
perhaps I might choose
to chase horses
and Victorians beneath the moon.
Perhaps it would not seem so strange,
the monthly change
and tide of blood.
Perhaps as a were I might
learn something of grace.
The night is big
and so are shadows.
In the brief time
between teeth and skin
might I find some other
kin or love than life?

When I was eight I found an arrowhead
in a creek bed, chipped
from black obsidian,
perfect and out of place
amongst the granite sand.
I held it in my hand
and knew what death was.
Death is like obsidian,
cold and sharp and
liable to shatter.
She was like obsidian,
smooth and grey
and eyes like chipped edges.
I have since lost the arrowhead.
But if I hadn’t,
I would throw it back.

The rain is leaking onto my windowsill
leaving a stain. Until
my hair grows out, it will rain
and rain and rain and rain.
Then the mice can sail
in tiny ships, round and round,
and discover new continents.

Dance, star-children, dance,
For you are born from the hot nova womb
Of the fetal goddess that is our universe.
I would string her necklaces of planets
And weave nebulae in her hair
Were I more to her than the crumbs of an atom.

I am lost in a love so great
That not even in the violent birth of time,
And never since,
Have two stars ever approached collision,
Excepting those locked in the suicidal embrace
Of Siamese twins.
A cold love, in the empty in-between.

Left to our own devices, we are
Planets in our own right;
Caught in cycles of gravity and love.
But no cometic will o’ the wisp,
Nor warm, homely Sun,
Will ever make her great,
Galactic traceries of spine
Less terrifying.

I have lost the beat of your heart
No matter how I held it
Safe as a seashell in my palms.

Warm sand trickles out of me
A worn place, a hole
Not far above my ribs
From too much rubbing.

The blades of grass will not understand
Nor do the worms.
The cicadas above only mimic my heart's song.

I have lost it as I lose every sunset, every wave.
I am an animal skin, a false drum.

(2010)

I make no bones about it;
I’m as common as they come.
I have since lost interest
In things coming undone.
I’ve eaten of black mutton
And I’ve gnawed a serpent bone,
A multitude of oranges
In a pomegranate home.
I’ve supped a core of cedar pine,
It’s bitter on my tongue,
A slimy sea of candle wax
A wicked xylophone.
And on a rosy-bowered swing
I’ve heard whispered all alone,
“I will love you until the day I die.”

"Speak,"
Said the Minotaur.
"Speak."
"For I am tired of silence and riddles."
Said the Minotaur.
"And I am tired of being wise."
"Come," he said.
"Come touch my horns."
"Feel my velvety nose."
"Come cradle my head,"
The Minotaur said.
"I am tired of being alone."

The lion's breath abates at last.
Two pieces silver hold it fast.

Though a quick man saves it for me,
Only a rich man may set it free.

Darkened Tower beyond lion's teeth,
Rattles a sword in filthy sheath.

A rhyming, blind man speaks the truth.
Shame he cannot see the youth,

Nimble quick to steal his purse,
Quick with shame, sets lions forth.

Sometimes journeys are best taken
Alone. The time of day
When the world is so new,
It hurts. Raw and pink at the edges.
Just me, myself, and I
And the frozen mist of my breath
As if to say
That if I spoke, the words would hang
In the air. Unforgotten, though no one was there
To hear them.
But I do not speak
The day is yet too brittle.
Before me stretch a line of footprints
Muddy outlines in the newborn snow.
Someone has already tasted
This morning, making me
Just a little guilty
For drinking from another’s cup.
Walking slowly, I match their stride.
Placing each foot in its matching slot.
The fit is perfect. It might
As well have been me.
Two me’s, two mornings.
With a chilled smile, I walk on
No longer alone.
Accompanied but walkers
Mornings past
And mornings yet to come.

Give me your heart strings, baby,
And I’ll weave them into a swing.
We’ll swing until we’re old, baby,
If only your heartstrings hold, baby,
If only they hold.

New buds of spring, all
Green and quiver timid
Like the sensitive skin of her fingertips,
Young and soft.
Will he kiss the secret skin in the crook of her elbow?
Or will the
Lazy heat of summer’s lingering kiss
Trace a well-known, hidden path down her
Leaf-shadow throat?
Does the breeze, running long fingers through her hair
Enjoy it’s silty silk?
Or do the
Shiver leaves, so black against the sunset,
Make crepe paper shadows?
Flat against the bleed of color
Like a stencil in the mirror
Whose haughty brown and curving lips
Seem more warming, more polite
Than the wrinkled, crinkled features
Of the crone
Whose profile blocks the light.