If Our mad dances slow to dirges
And the dark barges in on the stars,
If yours and mine is Ours no more
And shy, pale-faced reminders sigh
Behind the back door a-nights, then
I shan’t write another word for you,
Nor for me, nor Us, nor anyone.

If Our wild eyes and frisky paws
Are stilled into purposeful tools,
And Our twittering, jabbering jaws
Lock up in the great presence of fools,
Then I will shut up my heart’s blood
Inside some useless pen. I will forget
What We were - what you have been.

I will charge myself with this heaviest
Of oaths: when We are no more alight
And the stars still shine,
And the flowers blossom,
And new babies are born,
And the pointless world still shakes with joy,
Then I shall write no more.

For when We are not, what happiness
Is there more than a choked off laugh
In a silent void?

The phone throbs in her hand like a wound.
A voice over the wires tells her,
“Your son is hurt, not dead
Like the others, thank God, but
He cannot be moved.”
There is a dial tone.

He will be coming home soon,
And she will set out the best china -
And she must start sewing shut the right legs of his trousers;
She must tell the little ones to be quiet in their play,
But it does not matter.

No more will the phone wound her,
No more will she wake at night with an uncertain cry.
He will be coming home soon
And she will make the little house shine
With her many waking wonders.

He travels down pathways of velvet,
Treading mahogany and maroon
And ruby, all the varying shades
Of a wine glass caress his slick
Shoes. His face is freed from
Marble prisons, loosed onto
Stretched canvases in myriad
Bursts and strokes of sapphire,
Emerald, amethyst, opal,
Quartz, ivory, jade; his face,
Embroidered on jackets, on
Coatsleeves, is a symbol of
Charm and grace - a symbol of
Power. When he speaks, the words
Clink and sparkle together
Like gold and silver, like diamonds
And roses. The elements so mix
In him, etcetera. With a pace meted
In waltz-steps, he crosses galleries,
Admires his pet works, his pet workers.
He is a sought man, a buyer of
Flatteries. He drinks fine scotch.
This man, so vivid and clear
In place and time - so placed
In the center of beautiful scenes -
He drowses by my fire in his fine
Suit; he lids his eyes next to my cheek.

Perhaps I am slowing, or aging,
Or growing tedious. Stop me if I
Bore you; I hate long-winded bores,
Unstoppable ranters, and one-sided
Opinion staters. But returning to my
Friend, the gentleman who lounges
On my couch, who tickles my
Ear with soft cologne whispers,
Who catches my eye with poised
Puffs of flagging breath. He is so
Soft and kept in life. Death will find
A pitiful creature when it comes for
This delicate boy. He is my special
Treat, my prized butterfly in the
Most elaborate case. Watch him
So feebly flap his wings - don't worry
I've pinned him well. Look at how
His pale eyelids flutter (I could
Watch forever!) like the little
Bush-finches that come to bathe
In ditchwater and fly again to
Woven homes. But he will not fly!
Never will he slide out of my
Loving sight as he was wont to,
Never will he have to drink fine
Scotch alone. I will sip with him, I
Will warm his feet when he cannot
Lift his (now) leaden legs to the fire.

Don't touch him! Did your mother never
Teach you to look with your eyes?
He is mine! I will show him to you,
You will admire. I know you can, you
Were admiring him when I came
Upon you. (I should have known you
Would reach to leave your prints
And smudges on him, you bad-
Mannered girl.) Don't make that face,
You were trying to pin him, I
Just crunched my harpoon in first.
Now look at him, all lost and
Stopped. All but his eyes. Tell me,
Isn't he beautiful? A masterpiece.
My centerpiece, that's what he'll
Be. And you, you were the roots
And the thorns of an elegant flower:
The regrettably worthless stray
Leaves to be pruned away. I'm sorry
My poor dear, but you were born
To be wasted. Don't be sad, you
Had your day, you hung on his sleeve
For your little night. But he has
Such a habit of losing things he
Keeps there: cufflinks, his heart,

Girls who are not me. I'm sorry
My darling. It is a shame I must
Send you home, I do so love it
When people share my tastes.
Now drink this scotch my poor
Thing. Drink up. There now, do
You feel warmer? Are you tired?
Let me pull that cover up, why
Don't you have a good (long) rest?
Go to sleep, there's a good girl.
I'll put you to bed.

There is something in the spasms
Of a raccoon, crushed on one side
By the force of a tire - bucking back
And forth on pavement:
head tail head tailheadtail
head tail head tailheadtail -
There is something in this
That will not leave me. I have
Never seen a man die,
But I think I have.

There is something in the quiet
As I watch my mother try
To run over a snake by the
House, the tires going
back and forth and
back and forth and
There is something in the moment
When it escapes. I have
Never seen an execution reprieved,
But I think I have.

There is something in a little bird
Who wraps his wings around him
To keep warm and finds no warmth;
Only the clutching cold
and silence
and stillness.
There is something terribly hollow
In his tiny song. I will
Never hear a man so broken
In my lingering life.

Her trembling hands hover above
The beast. Timidly, her fingers
Brush its hard scales. She presses
A gentle touch to black, then to
White, startled at the coldness and
The responsiveness. It is an animal
Eager to learn a new trick,
Friendly to a new master,
But more paralyzing than a tiger.
It cries to her touch, but does not
Move: it is a poised cobra faced
With a charmer's flute, following
The graceful press of fingertips.
Sounding softly, then louder - a
Cheerful creature is easily led
From its silent cage. Each lively
Cry is compounded now with a
Stronger press. With the force of
Two hands, she reveals its form completely.
Not one beast, but a hive of hundreds,
Each sinuously crawling around her
Wrist - sliding up her sleeves -
Into her ears. Her body rocks, pent
Up in a storm of acceptance.
Bobbing and rising, nearly sinking
She tames the beast. In her
Moment of victory, there is silence.

Something flew away from the window.
The window is closed, and
Something flew when the sun rose
Behind a flappingwing;

A flappingthought flew from me:
Pitiful rising thought behind a shadow thrown
When Something flew away from the window -
But the window is closed and the sun rose
And Something flew away.

Oh, my darling, you are a mountain towering
Over my dim valleys hemmed with rivers.
The grand presence of your beauty overpowering,
Oh, my darling, you are a mountain towering
Over my valleys richly flowering,
And the sunbeams from your shoulders give me shivers.
Oh, my darling, you are a mountain towering
Over my dim valleys hemmed with rivers.

Oh, my dear, what winds might blast me
If not for your outstretched arms?
In this role that nature cast me,
Oh, my dear, what winds might blast me!
Mourning rivers would outlast me
With no haven for my fragile charms.
Oh, my dear, what winds might blast me,
If not for your outstretched arms.

Oh, my love, perhaps now you can see
Why I look up as though you are a peak
So unreachable and distant from tiny me,
Oh, my love, perhaps now you can see
(Though I think you still may not agree)
Without you bracing me, I am so weak.
Oh, my love, perhaps now you can see
Why I look up as though you are a peak.

Up to our feet and let's leave the world:

My darling there are too many too much
And too few; my sweet, feet down
On the ground and let's go.

Into a cabin a fortress, into the whiling
Of quiet hours and smiling at
Birdsinging noise from the sun world
Through the window — into us, my love.

Into us and we and none else
(For a dreamtime if not forever)
Dipping our feet into no need no care;
And only no one shall find us there
When we retreat, the world out of our hair.
And we shall come back to dark outside
Sunshining and birdsinging.

We bracing us until rainclouds shout
"Downpour, deluge!" into our ears;
Then up to our feet, my darling my sweet,
And again into leaving.

There was a place I knelt
In the light of chicken feathers,
And heard the song of God
Pouring from rain frogs in day lilies.

There was a bark bench in a wood
Underneath an apple-cedar rusted tree
That yielded its slimy children to me
Whenever I needed entertaining.

There was a rabbit that did not run
Immediately, but stilled and watched,
Nose twitching in apprehension, as if
Maybe I was no interloper, no enemy.

These things were -
And some still are -
Though I no longer remember
The path to the fallen pine
Or the hiding place of the rabbit’s burrow,
And the tree has been burned up
For many years.

There are pangs of hunger in me,
Not to hear God in the day lilies
(For I am still shaking from the sound),
But to find in myself the
Absolute wonder that I found
Inside a circle of roses.

Do you have everything you need?
Pillows, comforters, cuddly cotton puppy?
Good! Would you like a story? No,
I suppose not, haha. You know
Every one of them already; the twists and turns,
The lessons in the endings are things
You strove to teach me, after all.

Well. It has been a long day, and while our
Time waking has been fun, even the brightest
Sun has its evening horizon to
Tuck around its ears. Let me handle
The grown-up worries in the dark.
Goodnight, sleep well. I love you.
Tomorrow is a big day for us.

But if, my cherished darling, Helios
Is sluggish and sleepy from a night
Of ambrosia and untroubled lightning-
Lit skies, have no fear. I will still be
Here to greet you when you rise,
Here to warm you pancakes and
Wrap you in fluffy cotton smiles.

And some sneaky day - just when
I think that we (like Shakespeare and Shelley
On a library shelf) are near but still
Quite far away (separated by a book or two) -
You will greet me at a long night's end;
You will be unchanged, and though my
Looks will fade, my friend, you will
Recognize me (soft and warm, ah) and we
Will share pancakes and
Smiles in a slow morning.

I thought to write of you,
But you are inexpressible.
I thought to write to you,
But I am a habitual liar
And I cannot be sure
My words would go without
A little extra sculpting
On their way to the keyboard.
So I have written an apology.

I will always be a little too
Undiluted. Strong coffee, maybe
Is a flattering comparison
But really it can be
So much like skunk spray.
Point is, I go too far
Often. (Constantly.)

When I am listing your virtues
And mooning on your beauty
This is a pardonable sin
But then... Pendulums must return.
And so for the nights I have cried
For no reason, or worse:
For stupid reasons,
I apologize.

Doubtless you will be hushing me
We all have our faults
And though not faultless I am
Beautiful in your eyes.

But still I must apologize.
I do not know if I can tame myself,
Or if I could,
How much melancholy
Would drag happiness with it.

I am afraid to try and see.

Balance is what I need to be
Calm, but passion breeds
The strongest beauty -
And if I am not unhappy,
Can I still be mad with joy?
I do not know, and I'm sorry,
But I cannot say I wish to see.

Accidentally locked out
Of my cavern,
With cold for company.
Cold, and thoughts
Uncold:
Kept hot in the thermos in my chest,
Kept sweet:
Borrowed juice of a ripe fruit -
A peach, do let's say a peach -
Uncold company,
And in loneliness
A warmth...

A neatlyfolded
Origami Man is going 'round
Cleverbuzzing and kindsmiling
At little sillyshining things
That sometimes climb Him,
With My name folded up inside
And warm in the thermos
In His paper chest -

The stem of a mouse wineglass
Is not so delicate
Nor is He any less
Solid than the granite
'Pon which I'm resting -
That something fragile should be
So arresting...

The thought pins me warmly
In place,
So what of a wait?
Inside or out, hot or cold,
Somehow somewhere He is
Impossibly folded up
Around Me.

I can wait.

Down in the forest,
Amid the creaking pines,
Are two rusty old silos.
We call them the tin cans.
A brave few will climb them
And balance on the walls
As sentries to those inside.
Encircled in old metal
There's a pow-wow going
Between the chieftan of North Can
And the princess of the South.
Bubbles drift as smoke from their mouths
And their round cheeks stretch in yawns
That betray the distant setting sun.
Our war is over, the chief declares,
But neither side has won.
That's true, the queen smirks back at him,
And neither ever can. What do we do?
He glistens with battle sweat and
His soldier's breath is heavy.
You and I will draw up a treaty,
He says, and war another day.
She acquiesces and signs her name
On a bit of leaf in invisible ink;
He does the same, and both recline
A moment against the flaking metal walls
While the topmost edge of the sun falls
Below the curve of the earth
And the dark branches of the trees
Cradle a baby night.
Up top a sentry calls dinnertime.

War is too large, too big.
War is life, it is full of
Infinitesimal wiggling things
And inestimably giant
Ogres. War is not just for
Soldiers. War is for the air,
For the trees; war breathes
In the muck of the world
And purifies nothing. Why
Are we surprised? It is
Man-made, of course
We must expect some
Inefficiencies. And anyway,
War goes on despite the
Horrors of global warming
And the poor polar bears.
War thinks it cares, really,
It paves the road to Hell.

War is thirsty, but not for
Blood. It wants ambrosia;
War is a threadbare coat
In the governor's closet.
It is ugly and familiar, and
Always a little hungry. War
Only wants what it deserves:
Some cakes, some tea - a
Rest, maybe, (since it has
Labored longer years than
Any innocent human could.)
Yes, War is tired, so tired.
It yearns to ****** the yoke
Onto another's back. Like
Atlas begging someone to
Pick up the slack just to
Scratch his itching nose.
War is lonely and cold.

It does not understand
Why men make it work
And work and work, and
Still blame it for their hurt.
War would be harmless
If Death and Pain allowed,
But they are never blamed.
War is befuddled by man -
Always will be, always has
Been. It will scratch its
Aching head and wonder
Why so many ******-handed
Men will call on it with rage
And thundering voices.
It wishes for choices, but comes
To earth in the winter like
Apologetic frost. War is
Helpless, and War is lost.

If all my words were mating calls,
And all my poems merely
The slapping of the waves by
A whale's fins to garner some attention,
If the purpose of all my work
Was only echolocation,
What answer can I make
When a listener surfaces
From the deep, calm and
Implacable, a beautiful inevitability?
What can I say when the man
I dove for comes to me
And says, Here I am,
You can stop calling now,
I will not leave.
What then, when I hold
Coleridge's flower in my hands?
What can I do now - I who have
Pressed my pen to the grindstone
For the purpose of finding him -
Now when all I know to do
Never needs doing again?

We took a drive down to Arizona last summer -
I know, it was a terrible season to do it, but
We didn’t have enough time off while
She was in school, and I had just gotten
My vacation, so summer it had to be.

We were cruising down the road through the desert,
(And I know people say that deserts are full of cactuses,
But really they aren’t, I mean, I only saw like
Seven the whole trip and that was really disappointing
Because I was only really in it for the cactuses;
Oh, but I’m rambling) and she asked me
Why there even are roads in the middle of
What is basically an enormous sand dune,

So I said I guess there must be towns out here
In this enormous sand dune, places that need
Getting-to. She looked up at the empty shallow-water
Blue of the sky and said, well why would there be
Towns out here? Between the heat and the salt flats
And the lack of cacti (which she said for my benefit)
I don’t see why anyone would visit a desert,
Much less live in it. Which was something to think on,

So I did, and after considering the question, I said,
The pilgrims came to a land of harsh winters
And savage peoples (or so they thought) and
Hated the place, but hated it less than their home,
So they stayed. She seemed in wonder and a little
Sad, pondered this new information for a moment
And said, what they were running from must have been
Bad, and now it’s got them stuck out here

Even when it’s dead they can’t go back.
I knew she meant more than villages in the sand,
But I just said yeah and dipped my head.

Fingers on the back of my neck
Curl into my hair,
And a sigh whispers in my ear.
Like a cat drinking I have unraveled my muscles,
Condensed them loosely around my bones,
And he has condensed
Himself loosely around me.
The mute and immovable weight
Of his eyes laying themselves on mine
Flattens my lungs,
And ever eager to fix he fastens over me
And breathes .

High school was always mewing
Quietly at the window
As the window filled with rain;
High school had matted fur,
It purred and gazed attentively.

High school was constant prodding,
Poking, miniscule thefts of attention
Piled into mountains.
High school was false and sweet -
Saccharine and lemon-sour.

My friends:
The lost, the needy, the distressed,
The empty, the hungry
With open mouths stuttering
Repeatable predictable rhythms.

My friends:
The quiet, the wise, the brave,
The knights of an emaciated kingdom -
Boys with wooden swords
Defending me from the world.

High school was always shallow water,
Too loud laughter, music blasting:
A cacophony of nothing, three feet deep.
Dancing on the head of a drunken giant
Who for too long had been asleep.

Tonight is not a writing night.
I know this because I am not
Straining, stressing, or
Leaping for words. No,
I am sleeping in words,
So many, I could kick through them
Like leaves.
This is not a writing night.
The words are there but my soul
Cannot be restrained, filtered or
Constrained by meter or rhythm
Or rhyme.
My heart refuses to pour itself
Onto the page, refuses to tell me
Something I already know, and
Something I dearly want to know again.
No, no.
I can only whine and
Stamp my foot. I am a child,
A twisted Oliver Twist.
While I hold my empty cup,
I beg myself for one more sweet
Drop, one sip, one swallow,
Or perhaps
A selfish ocean to drown in.