arc the air
and sigh

into darkness
what was

once
is now

             gone

]and so grinds grief[

]the very pit of it[

]the incessance[

and there will come a day
to shake down stars
and rediscover

and there will come a day
to push sorrow aside
and wake wanting

but not today
and certainly
not now

autumn aches
of crimson breaks
and gold mistakes
things we must
take up with rakes

boughs bend
with heavy rests

of snow
the singe

of a wing
tips powdery down

white domed stones
city the river

a fox settles
in a fetch

of aspens
when was

the last time
you stretched

your shadow
untied yourself

and waded out
into the mystery

of things?
when did you

last wake
to watch

the first push
of new snow?

growling
in the distance

dark plumes
untent

ruffling
the color

of the sea


           out
side
                 in in
side
          out


whenfearshakes
thebreathfromourlungs

whenpoisonmeasures
toomu­chintheblood

                                                          how do we
                                                                  return
                                                            to center?

                                                          how do we
                                                                  renew
                                                               beauty?

i am humbled
by calder’s wires

by the music
miles monk

and mingus made
by the impastos

of van gogh
and van rysselberghe

by rodin’s
le secret

listen

the snow pillows
upon the pines

listen

the river breathes
across summer stones

it is all
one tongue
one language

there is
a reason
for this

i do not believe
in ghosts

but i am cordial to them nonetheless

i do not believe
in god

but from time to time i wonder how she is doing

i do not believe
in heaven

but i am curious as to what might be on the either side of this door

i do not believe
in the hell

but just in case i mind my manners

i do not believe
in the beatles

well actually i do and they are definitely better than the rolling stones

in the early hours
when you

left our bed
to set upon

a quiet house
now

the sky
cracked

and screaming
now

the weight
of so many words

now
the smudge

the sun makes
and when

at last
we catch cathedral

let us
release you

to a bolt
of blue sky

in the little
of the morning

red flag raised
and sounding

the air
cool moving

through
the trees

unsettles
loose leaves

the horizon
slides closer

stitched black
with lightening

bruised blue
with pummels

of thunder
first drops

blink dark
the dry ground

haloing
in the sand

before the world
shrieks

and sighs

in the mango tree
across the street

a prattle of parrots
most evenings meet

to chew the fat
and the mango sweet

with a secret cue
they screech away

then circle back
as if to say

this was the best
part of your day

i will give you
permission

to cut me
with your knife

to give me eyes
that will not see

a mouth
that will be silent

i will give you
permission

to take your hands
and scrape away

my seeds
turning my insides

out
i will give you

permission
to cut me

with your knife
againandagainandagain

if you promise
to leave

your light
inside me

many are
the morning ghosts

who see
what we cannot see

who architect
such a broad sweep

of things
the sky

perfectly pieced
with the sea

the waves piling
onto the shore

how the trees
and the rocks

tendril together
to weave their way

up up up
into the sky

m(ending)
                                 you
           a      nd
         i(n)
      me

miles out at sea
far too distant

for the drums
to be heard

ribbons of light
split beneath the ribs

of a thunderhead
within the hour

the storm had tiptoed
off the horizon

and all those
around me

distracted
by more mundane things

were none
the wiser


                                      but
                                   let me
                              ask you this


when was the last time
beauty

stopped you
in your tracks?
laughed
at your silly deeds
and demands?

when was the last time
beauty

took you
in her gentle hands
and shook you
all to pieces?

minimalism.
mnmlsm.
mmm.
mm.
m.
.

the hummingbird
all function

and form
impossibly winged

and ricocheting
from one

cupped sun
to another

i stand
my ground

and imagine
the percussion

of its tiny heart
a muscle

the size
of a grape seed

then there it is
right before my eyes

lingering
for a moment

before nudging off
into this uncomfortable world

there is so much work
yet to be done

the rains
have returned

as have the parrots
that riot down

the evening streets
this morning

a hummingbird
ash grey

and the size
of a child’s thumb

floating between
the branches

of a flowerless tree
slowly

things have found
their way back

into focus
into some semblance

of routine
and order

but small cracks
and fissures remain

open invitations
for grief

to come
galloping back

(did you really think you would be rid of me so easily?)

(that this would last only a moment?)

(who do you think has been filling your dreams with shadows?)

si lence of snow

the for the how

be said ghosts un

too much so fold

There is slow ly.

there is no beauty
in their flight

a frantic choreography
as if taking to the air

for the very first time
twitching from one tree

to the next
but their color

such a giving green
and that breath of red

patched just beneath
each wing

says much
of their humor

their jocularity

will you have a look at us?
how the hell did we even get here?
and, really, who knew this would such fun?

the way
we lose

our mothers
and fathers

out beyond
the trespass

of light
sparklers dancing

the summer dark
no single language

no simple answer
within intimate twists

the wheel of grief
windquick fists

pummeling the rubble
of what remains

what fades away
and there

just beyond
the weight of it

the moment
that threatens

to touch
and take you

this little wrist
of sand

marks many
a morning's search

wave worn
and shore washed

like shells
stones or broken

bits of coral
tossed about

in tidal bows

once
i woke
    
certain that there was no god

once
i watched

a mountain lion bound the trail before me

once
i walked

with venus and jupiter clear in the pre-dawn sky

once
i was

where does
such wild come from?

why does
the full white of the moon excite us so?

when you died
did you collect all the perfect petals?

this new morning light
is not some mask
or a bright new coat to slip on
it is not a sign
or signal
of what was once
or will soon be

these waves are not
the fingers
of some dark leviathan
roaring forth
for my body
or soul
they are not
glassy cylinders
shattering into millions
of pieces on the shore

last night’s moon
was neither a pale coin
nor some other currency
of love
or mystery

these things just are
as we are
beautifully present one moment
and gone the next
you either understand that
or you do not

(to nien cheng)

to the shudder
and split

of skin
the rip

of breath
the wet

wings
folding un

folding
in a bloodrush

of color
the first pull

onto the air
the first rise

into the notes
only you can hear


                                             touch tongue to

                                                   each cup
                                                 each chalice
                                              each open hand
                                                     of god


what urged you
from your church?

what inspired the wind
to wake you?

untethered
the rain

taps incessantly
upon the surface

of the sea
smoothing the waves

calming the pull
of the tide

this is what
love feels like

the weight
of it

the drumming
of blood

percussive
through the corridors

flooding its way
to and from

the heart
where it hides

in quiet places

when life
and death

sit
in the same room

the eyes
of the unbaptized

are left open
above the baskets

of fruit
and the piles

of shoes
coffins hang

on walls
a cross made

of two broken branches
marks

a new grave


    bla ck b ird s wa tch fro m we ary wir es


please
let me finish

this thought
this breath
this life

wind held
the hawk

well above
the burn

and stubble
of october fields

in slow circles
of un

         broken blue
a single note

turning
and re

           turning
how will you

approach silence?
with open arms

a feather of fear?
is there

any room left
in your crowded life

for stillness?
how do you

measure mystery?

winds trespass
and stand

still

clouds tower
grey and

spill

bough flower
drink their

fill

sakura crocus
&

daffodil