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.

For the sake of the story, I will tell you what really happened. You, two young stars in a single orbit, blossomed over the foggy window in your rising, and I, a fat dull moon, was eclipsed.

The stone, alone, fears gentle rains,
For over time, they wore her.
Inside, she knows, as stones must do,
She's made of all who came before her.

This little poem mumbled
To me in our sleep, the
Little things the morning
Leaves: flowers
Of the strangest kind a
Cloudy sky might find beneath,
Above my head as I walk
Upon whatever the night
Rain swept through the
Streets. Reminds me with
My eyes half opened busted
Seams, spilling still such
Pillowy things, of the
Prayer I washed down
The bathroom sink, oh,
And the eyelash I think you
Dropped in my dreams.

The sea was cold and my blood was hot;
O storm of all that I am not,
Carry my cry to meet the king,
Turn my heart a salty thing --
          Before he finds me sinking.
The moon was old and the night was new;
The stones were soft, and I dreamt of you.
Lord of blood and love and bread,
Lord of all I never said --
          And you will find me sleeping.
The fire was sweet and cooled my blisters;
The dust was discreet and spoke in whispers.
Quiet eyes to strike with wonder;
Blessed birds do crow in thunder --
          And I have found myself weeping.

It's not my place
To weigh the truth
In all the things you said.
I merely know the feeling of
Your footprints in my riverbed.

Wind from the north and the sky aches with gray
But whether wisdom comes with age is not for me to say

The air as still as forests, the sky as my soul is blue
Somewhere is a river where the berries grow for you

Midway into summer and the night is coming on
A windy, wet non seuqitur I meet a moment long

Trees bow low, the pious souls, their anxious branches beckoning
The desperate would sell me for a covenant with lightning

The night awakes in light the day can only dream about
No worlds have ever heard the roars of such a broken drought

You have opened all the valves
Of my attention.
Your hands stain with my rust.

My frame
It wakes
In dust.

You're getting good at setting up
Your spotlight and your stage.
The subtle flick
Between your lips
Reaches out to turn my page,

And my imagination
Rattles in its cage.

A tangled heart
Is a work of art
Sweet, deliberate, crochet.
Spare no thoughts
That the prettiest knots
Must all unravel someday.

It's late in the evening and the world is winter
and bare-treed. She goes to the window, where
at home it was sage and yucca or some other
pretty ****. But here it has yet to be classified:
it's just bark, stem, seed. And at home the stars
would yawn into being, star by star; rubbing,
stretching, blinking. But here they are one, and
they always come late. Their light they withhold
as if lying in wait, so it's dark till the moment...
she's not quite aware. She just wrinkles her nose,
looks up,
and it's there.

Palms unite, a huddled crowd
And thumbs convene, as lips

A language native to the hands
This meeting of the fingertips

One by one (like stars) aligned
A congress of the quietest kind

For eyes it will unfold, unwind
Unheard, and yet, the word, defined

You couldn’t catch the poetry:
The subtle glimpse of eternity that
Stripped for you like a lover.
You were in no mood to feel
The tenderness of another,
So blindly he stood waiting in
The doorway of your soul.
He held the seeds of insight that
You would never grow.
Even as you shared existence with
A thousand worlds untold
You closed your eyes and felt resigned
To let your lips grow cold,
Despite the womb inside your heart
That could have nursed creation;
Despite the boy beside your head
Who whispered inspiration.

*Versailles, France

what makes you so different from the people you are
fighting? there’s no middle ground when fuses are
lighting with fires igniting and children delight
ing in whatever they eat off the screen. ado
lescents restricted to the diet of infants.
don’t tell me about the hidden mean
ing in the things i am seeing in
the things i am feeling in the
things i am eating while
you are still teething.
five senses can’t
sense the fact
of my being
. alright?

*Albuquerque, NM

It is not written

That I should feel the guilt I'm feeling in
This murmur nearly constant when
My mind is always reeling and
My heart is never silent, absent

Why forget your fathers and
Why forsake your husbands?
He never told the truth, of course
He said he does — He doesn't
Were you meant to judge the world?
Forgive me, but I wasn't

I let lying dogs keep lying so
My ridicule is harmless, dormant
I don't care for biased advice nor
Ask you if I should, shouldn't
You believe I'm foolish and
I've never truly been a woman, for
I am not so sensible: to
Bear the grace the title warrants

But you are able-bodied and have
Done the things I haven't, couldn't
Touch the path of purity with
No mind for this violent torrent
Work your way along my spine and
Hurl me toward a boiling tangent
Pride will leave me battered while
I scream at you with mad abandon
Yes! he lied about it all —Don't
You think I know he doesn't?
You were born to get it right
Forgive me, but I wasn't