Wicked ticks the clock, our lord and master,
And rather unashamed are we who steal
Moments which pass by as fast—no! faster
Than we can hide them ere the heavy heel
Of guilt attempts to crush our sweet belief.
The clock be ******! the berry vines that cling!
For can what’s given freely still be thieved?
Go ask my heart: I’ve stolen not a thing.
Shameless, yes, but then so must the sun be,
For can you hunt what wishes to be found?
Go ask the sunwarm rocks, the beach in peace
While wars rage on, the mushrooms springing ‘round;
For in the lungs the air’s a wintry thing,
But on the cheek gives such a pleasant sting.

If a frosty little leaf my heart were
Where in the woods it lived a sheltered life
From grief remote, where frozen hearts are sure,
But there became a glimmer in your eye,
I hope you take it gently by the stem
And, making your way down to the river,
Pondering the lives of leaves and men,
Twirl it so the sun can make it glitter.
And if you do, don’t think that I’ll regret
The stain upon your palm, this heart of mine.
It’s better, now, though melted—dark and wet,
For having known the joy it was to shine.
So leave it drying on a log, and say:
“My hand was but too warm for it to stay.”

If my heart is a frosty
Little leaf, having lived sheltered
On the forest floor
Among frozen acorns and
Abandoned tires, and the
Sight of its unassuming
Glimmering catches your eye,
I hope you take it gently
By the stem on your way
To the river. I will shine
In the bright winter sun
As hard as I can. Then, when
My heart is a dark little leaf
Spent, yes, and wet, but better
For having known what it was
To sparkle, leave it
On a log by the water
With a pretty white mushroom
And a bottle cap, an offering
For the gremlins and fairies,
And when you do, if the sun
Is out and the water is
Running sweetly and you see
My wet heart on a log, please say,
"Oh, my hand was too warm."

Hope is the thing with feathers
In its teeth. It dogs you in the doorway
                                       -- sarcoptic, fleas,
Starving soul bared to each
Stranger he meets, a stranger
to your heart but not the streets.

May the thorns only kiss,
Sweet remiss, the blood only
Raspberry syrup, sticky lips, and
May the night be lit, yes, to wit,
May only daylight blind your dreams,
Dancing blue eyes, dancing river
Butterflies, only these may you find,
Like you never left them behind,
Like you never went arms open
Heart wide, into the world, oh god,
May it be kind, may it only be kind.

Night brings a host of ugly
Wounded things. My heart strings
A refuge of birds with broken wings
I am a canopy to sleep beneath
And wake with feathers in my teeth, like
When I think of the river I wished would flood
I think of wasps, of sweat, of mud
And when I picked those berries and kissed
My hands, and I wished it were blood
I think I'd like to spit at the moon. I think I may have
Left too soon. There was a beggar I passed
And never gave her a second look
I think of the lie that's holding me fast
I brace myself early when I know it won't last
I think of that photograph I never took
I think I might write that horrible book
But fear the damage it could do, because
What if what it said were true?
I think of love, and the shame I knew
And you, of course, I think of you

Longing of the surface reaches even
Waters deep, little troubled bubbles which
Through lightless horrors creep, to
Find a yearning current crushed by all
The sea its underneath, to raise it up from
Breathless dreams the lunged creatures
Gasp for in their sleep. And though it's
Sick with salt at thought of sweetness,
Like a felon at the oars, whatever deeps
It dredges up may never see this brilliant
Sun of yours. And so while drawn to light
Of day from dark and weedy floors,
It trembles at the privilege but to touch
Your once-warmed shores, and ripples
Under moons who merely mirror heaven's
Scores, and offers awful ink-stained prayers
That it may surface one night more.