Love,  be gentle and kind,
take that rusty gun from under
my pillow and shoot me twice
in the heart so I can feel the hurt
from the first time and the pain
from the second again;
but don't bury me in the dirt
beneath your bare feet,
just burn me like the memory
of your brown soles I saw
running away, oh, so long
a time ago, I can't even remember.

I swirl galaxies
In a fit of pique

Soothe exo planets
Locked in orbit

Blow gentle air
From hot face
To freezing rear

This I
Centre of centreless
Space

Dimple in the chin
Of directionless
Being

Entire universe
Mere metaphor

Of how This I
May feel
Right now.

This vaunted ambition
These vaulted palaces

Celebrants all of

This I that
This I calls

God as a two year old
Stamping mighty feet

This nothing at all
This whatever
This I
That is what it is

And loves only
This I

November comes
with the wild geese
in their V like memories
of an arrow flying
too close to the sun
and their feathers shining
as their wings beat as one
drum in the distance
signaling that winter
is coming, and the cold
days will keep us inside
warmed by the fires we crave
deep in our caves painting
and dreaming away.