At dusk I hang up
a worn blue work
shirt that smells
strongly of love
of dirt of the earth
melancholy, sweat
yesterday's brews
the blues, regret
twenty cigarettes
black breath
of the bone moth
old blood, moon dust
spring pollen, summer
grass, Autumnal ****
winter's cold blast
sea salt and pine needles
mountain laurel, desert air
my dog's hair, I swear
I can't bear the thought
of washing or throwing away
all the stains, the growing pains
the laughter, the sorrows
these history lessons I need
to get me through tomorrow.

Love can be like
trapped light
existing like dusk
the likes of which we can't see
physical but not optical
gravesites for stars
a waystation for dreamers
a delta to cruise through
paradise on Sunday
cold as ice on Monday
a hundred pound block on tongs
with a butterfly at its center
your temple of madness
or the Egypt of your ***
lands of mystery
an island of death
proven theories of sorrow
your lineage, children, tomorrows.

I take off my boots
and throw one at the moon
tonight, the starlight is mute
after listening to the news
watching politicians kissing
the President's *** like it
was a ruby on the Pope's ring
while the people weep
in the streets, crying out about
all the orders from above,
no more doves or butterflies,
no gardens, no dreaming, no
poets, no brooms, no hope
for the sick and weary, only
last straws, executive actions,
anti-immigrant policies.

Who is that man
in my doorway

his shadow
smelling like grave soil

face cold as a dead star
dark as a pond full of oil

his hair floating like weeds
eyes blank as a book of good deeds

turning slowly with grace
like a boot tied to the end of a lace.

I am drawing water and a ship
to carry me away, a black
ship with good timber
and no rotten planks, a ship
everyone will have a turn
at the wheel, a ship that never hears
the sad song of oars sang
where the only prayer is the wind
to carry you through the leagues
of loneliness, a ship to guide you
down sleeping rivers through
passages of lost swords, the songs
of the graveyard, oh sweet Jesus,
a blessed ship bearing his wounds,
a ship of dreams sighted by the blind
riders that put out light and darkness,
sailing constellations named for the broken-
hearted, the artists, and poets writing deep
blue poetry for the Captain and the crew.

When I am the guest of my brother
sleep watching shooting stars
in a black dog's eyes
asleep in a star drift, dreaming
of tides and spiral galaxies,
I am an ice sword dipped in wine,
death ringing in your ears
like the darkest shadow of night,
a lost sailor drifting through
the centuries in a black ship,
a man standing vigil over a grave
cleaning mud off of his boots
with a knife.

Night I call you
portal of silence

the true divided light
of the moon through
my window leaving

shadows like crosses
of time, that old bandit

on my wall, the panes
stained, broken and sharp.