tired of keeping things alive
of water
of the color green
of what puts down roots and thirsts
and drinks what I can bring
and thirsts
or then the desiccation
the life that dried
awaiting me
tapped out
and where's the water
empty clouds huff and puff
the promise of rain that doesn't come
dance for the rain that doesn't come
but I will not bear the water
I will no longer keep things alive

The greatest are at Eddyville, the lesser at LaGrange
six hundred of no one at the jail on the hill
no windows, no bars, no name to do up to five nowhere
for nothing, or that's what they say.
Institutional white tones of gray
sealed concrete floors under light look like rivers at night
all so clean except the time, except the title
of the crime sounds so insipid.
Better robbery or ****** better yet
lining up on concrete rivers for a shave.
What is the essence of it?
No one's going to die.
Everyone will eat baloney on his food card and lie on his back.
Freedom begs the question of degree.
What is the essence of it?
Visiting baby mamma by TV?
The inability to conjugate the verbs of touch?
Freedom begs the question of degree.
What is the essence of it?
Never having lived a single day
beyond the shadow of the jail that has no name?

It having been decided, herein is pronounced.
Let them know the number of days; let them count the number of days
and the count shall be 180.
Day 1 let him strike his head with his fists and call it "stupid".
Day 5 let the vomiting begin without surcease.
Let him dress for work as if he can.
Let him park and never drive beyond Day 10.
Let him pass out at the toilet.
Let him shed 100 pounds and all his hair.
He shall suffer such indignities as appertain
until he is brought to tears before his eldest son
of whom he shall ask, "Do you believe in miracles?"
Let there be no reprieve, neither for the holidays.
Let him wander out into the snow without a coat
and utter, "So beautiful. So beautiful."
All this in due course to precede the final 3.
The son and he shall smoke a last cigarette on the porch.
He shall proceed to the gurney and not see home again.
Let them gather at the hospice room.
Let him suffer terminal rage
thus shall he be manhandled by the sons.
On that day he shall be bedridden by narcotic.
Let him fall into persistent incoherence.
They shall play the New World by Dvorak.  
He shall not hear.
They shall gather for the Rosary over him.
He shall not hear.
The eldest son shall vow to stay at his side
nor shall he sleep for 72 hours.
The son shall not permit the end to come.
The son shall take his hand and say
"Only God takes it away."
And when the room is empty but for them he shall sing softly
"Today While the Blossoms Still Cling to the Vine"
He shall not hear.
Let them all tell him it is okay to die.
Let the eldest son protest, "It is not okay to die."
In the final hours he shall struggle again
thus to be manhandled by the sons.
Then amid his incoherence he shall look the eldest in the eyes
and solemnly say
"I love you."
These shall be his last words.
Let them check his toes for signs of life.
Let the breathing come infrequently.
Let the breathing cease.
Let the son remain until they pull away the sheet
and display him in his nakedness at last.
All this to be accomplished January 15
in the year of Our Lord.

In one hundred years...
These snows will have melted
will have washed the Appalachian stones clean.
These living waters will have journeyed downward through the pines
downward from the heights
their secret labor hidden in the grasses and the vines
will have released them.
These snows will have sought their rest
by rivulet and stream in crystal ponds the light of sky.
You and I
will too have slipped away
as lovers sometimes do from gatherings
sought perhaps at first then not among the festive crowd
forgetting those they wished to please each other more.
We will have traced a silver stream
beyond the things we have to say our quiet minds
each given to the other and on to where the waters run
with careless steps regarding more our love than time
to where the waters rush together as do broken lovers
joined at once and not to part again.
We will have come at length upon a crystal pond the light of sky.
You and I
will have reclined in tender grasses water's edge
the very same that coursed the heights and leaped.

New snow has dressed the dawn in white and veiled as if a maiden
bride this one light. The wind as if a voice whispers unto the dawn,
"Beloved." Beckons, "Beloved." "Beloved," breathes, sighs unto the dawn.
This one light falls upon the naked tree, flush and warm upon its
trembling limbs. Branches as if hands concealing shame implore,
"Look not upon my nakedness. Look not upon the wounds of my nakedness."
Yet this one light moves among the branches, curls upon the limbs,
its restive body soft as grace on tender scars and draws
its veil with its embrace.

Once a stalwart tree arose, forged
in war, opposed before it stood grasping at the earth, tearing at the hem
of heaven's gown. Years etched somber verses on its back, years pleased
to twist and bend what would not break, to let stand this reading of the leaves:
Behold the fate of the last thing. Once a stalwart tree became as if the truth
in ugly nakedness, in stripes and scars, as if the truth in branches frozen open
to absent light to the shame of its members in the horror of plain sight.
Then dreamed a tale and knew the truth no more.

Come one light upon the naked tree, closer still, closer still, until within
its branches then its limbs light as fire upon its naked wounds blushes
crimson white beneath a snowy veil. The wind as if a voice pleads,
"Hush. Hush." A secret union mocks the work of years finding there
an ageless will to be at peace with fire, to become what lies within
suddenly awake by touch of what is wholly other. What is seen,
dawn dressed as if a maiden rises and departs, a scourged tree bears
its sorrows to the light, cold grace, cruel denial, need - or unseen,
the two will always be as one, beloved -

God why do you shake me can't you let it be
the way wild geese are wild birds of prey **** mourning doves
only weep but what am I God and you will not let it be.
God you made these holes it all leaks peace drips out
loves depart a constant stream of guests by day
when late it's only you and I just let it be.
God my eyes are full of loveliness I cannot touch the ugliness
of what is done is done fills my eyes with nothing else to see
but you the one unseen could simply let it be.
God my heart's desire pain my great ambition end of all
my labor come to this achievement prostrate hours praying let it be.
God in the narrows of my life
God in the shadows of my deeds
God the earth I trouble bears me less today
words pierce me faces turn away yet even now
God in the shallows of my thought
God in the depths of my despair
God in lonely hours come again at last to this one prayer
I pray you will once simply let it be...okay.

How far had I gone can't remember the day or the way
I met you a stone in my shoe shaking it out on a bench
of the benches I sat drifting the road to Never Will Be.
A crumpled paper bumping along stopping to no end
no purpose to arrive no wish to leave wind pushed
to Never Will Be. But I recall the spark your touch made
my hand uncomfortable taking your hand not letting go
not moving on detonating life all the little pieces of us blown
falling together shaky as rag dolls mends and stitches
beautiful disarray tender at the tears. But missing parts.
And if we did not become what we were when we blew
And if we were not to be as we were made
And if we were not fully functional
And if I only wanted you
And if you only wanted me
And if we walked awkwardly
And if we were beautiful only to each other
were we not beautiful as we were
following our dreams to Never Will Be?