When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father’s trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a ******* of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and ****** me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a ******* of birches.

I remember my life avalanching on a ***** of no particular location worth remembering
I recall the fire of our love fading and embering
The hot coals of your soul turning black with the breeze
That swept over the car as you tore a life apart
I remember wishing to tear out my heart
If I could only take it from your lockbox of love
Where I misplaced all my trust
You would sprinkle on your fairy dust
Explaining how it's best for us
Even how I should've known this was coming
These god forsaken legs won't start running
Better to bear the brunt of your blade slowly slicing two lives from one
I remember my life avalanching on a ***** of no particular location worth noting
I remember you walking into my life but can never recall you going

Hawaii,
Just the name sounds magical,
Oahu.
Oh, wahoo!
But the swell was dying down,
Not as big as days prior.
Still good enough for me.

The undulating earth,
Not fire, water.
Slow rollers
With surprising speed.
Cresting, foamy peaks
Avalanching into those clear bowl-like valleys below.

Temporary hollowness
Racing to devour the escape
As the sleek slide rides
On until the chase is up.

Barrel after barrel
For time out of mind that day
Was spent in the surf.
Great day in those crystal waters
Riding the waves of the earth.

Looking beneath behind through as if searching for a small speck of dust
Some kind of answer or hint, please
All the while hiding cases and cases of confidential files
Neurotoxic venom building up underground about to explode in geysers of
What the **** is going on?
What are these letters I type in contrast to the static blizzard
Freezing brain cells avalanching down
Drowning in its overwhelming white intensity
Covering all traces of understanding
Seeking every last hidden-in-plain-sight human and universe motivation
Contemplating every glimmer in hopes it was just a reflection.

My soul married yours long before it told the heart,
That was your secret gestures, it had been concealing
And shy alphabet letters formed our non-linear talks
On which ancient symbols were awakening with the news,
That my rapt countenance longed to behold only you.
And in Morse code, my riotous pulse was pinging,
In tiptoeing tiny steps, toward your smile-fragranced planes;
With small sips of blind and drunken-wheeling wonder,
On Adirondacks of time, I finally met your gaze.
And together found, we were writing the same vows;
Our fingers following a bright-feathered knowing,
And scented blooms of flowers knew your older names;
And avalanching comets swept clean the turgid dawns.
Then the seeds of forever were pocketed in your breath,
Wreathed by stars, and saved for hidden yearning.

riot rhythm
vertical to vertical
we're all going up or down
there's no cross section
it gives me those jitters
where you're lurching fast forward
let's just fast forward
so we can waste time
regretting things
waiting for the dreaming hour
waiting to escape
always hunting for energy
that isn't manufactured anymore
it's when the layers are pulsing in your ears
that you remember the real life
long ago.

muscles spazzing with every
twitch of the clock
there's not enough space in the
world to occupy my heart's
beating motion.

the ambulance is going faster
when you're sinking into the earth
nothing's written in records
and Hancock never lived
nor did I.
buried in the ground is the
only positive pressure I've
ever befriended.

close to the ground
head under a table
deja vu
I wish I lived earlier
so I could feels the same
kind of emotions they did.
I think I do.

tears avalanching
onto the mountainside
below my eyes.

nothing catches my interest
or my eye
quite like a happy tune
with sad lyrics.

If my dream state
was in charge of my awakened form
I would contort and transition--from mouse
to praying mantis
to your eyelashes
fanning out your dewy dropped ache
Offering permission
allowing all of your pain to taper
trickle down to nose
down to  curved lip
down to chin
avalanching onto breast bone

And what if I was a megaphone
Or a confident white man
in some overrated leadership position
Or a scooped out couch cushion
I would let you sit in the same spot for years
I would stand at the podium
and declare that I have never felt alone
or insecure
or flattened out
or in yearning to trace the calic in your hair
or a triangle of *** and feminism and woman

Could you imagine if we were voyeuristic with our touch
with our chaos
with our close eyed kisses
with our eye contact
conversations

The world would not be able to handle any of it
at least our world.

One time
I asked you if we could have a mirror installed on the ceiling above your bed
You laughed and then said,
why would we do that?
I felt only slightly embarrassed as I answered
that I wanted to see you from a third person perspective lying next to me
Because at times it felt almost too good to be true
Like when you say all these things you thought that you knew
And it turns out you never really knew anything at all
Like that it actually is possible to spend the better part of your entire existence trying to identify with the freckles on his back
or attempting to keep all of your sanity intact when you find yourself avalanching in love as you run your fingers along the track of his spine
At which point I pointed out how nice the mirror would be
So at any time I could glance up and see our bodies intertwined like the waves in the sea
And the absolute guarantee that there will always be stars in the sky
Even if you can't see them
The same way that in every goodbye there are words left unsaid and tears that aren't shed for the simple reason that we are all just trying to somehow keep our **** together
And so whether or not there will ever be a mirror above your bed I'm not quite sure
So I suppose, for the time being, my other senses will have to assure me that this will suffice
But that's quite alright
Because the feel of your skin on my hands is more than enough to ignite my own imaginative powers of the beautiful way you must look next to me at night

Hear the emptiness deep within
There are echos of grief and sin
All the petals now are finally gone
The thorns rip like the words to a song
And all that is sacred is bled
And it's dead  
No one cares  
And nothing's said

The moments are boulders in your head
Avalanching from the lies you said
And the winter's warmth is false comfort
The winds chide and howl in retort .
And all that once was you
Has flown
South by Southwest
Now is unknown

And the children laugh and play
Oblivious to the pain's display
And you wonder of a poem in Blue
A distant path you once knew
And the tempuous
Tides have changed
For the once courageous . . .
Now deranged

you will come back
in every five seconds
in every five minutes
in every five round clock
in every five changing snowdrops
on the pavement
eon of epoch, your tardy shortcomings and
my in-sync horology

still i wait for you,
and sundial
of your promise

you will come back
in every winter
in every summer
in every spring
in every fall
weathervane foreverly prevail

still i wait for you,
with glimmering eyes
and avalanching hopes

you will come back
in every monday
in every wednesday
in every friday
in every sight of sadderdaze
a repertoire of mystical moments
per diem of price

still i will wait for you,
in every sunrise,
in every twilight

Many nights I shivered,
Rustling my paper skin.
Sounds of squeaking creeps, murmured crawling,
Creaking the wood behind my door.
My hand swats the darkness,
But I can't feel the slap
In this area constructed for rats,
Where the thickness of their poison
Chokes them.

Foreshadowing danger,
An avalanching absence

Of mind.

A dissolving…of thought.

And I…hear it now…
Drifting…The
Creaking
Of retaliation,
The
Squeaking
From neglect,
The whispering becoming hoarse,
Drumming against my skin.
My nerves are tight strings,
Tight enough for acrobats to stroll—stretch—across them,
Rupturing my…skin.

The outside layer chills, freezing all shivers, all strays
And leaves a shrill voice that blooms and decays,
Wilting—
Clutching onto—nothing, it seems,
Craving my rescue.

I ignore it, for it is dark. Bottomless. Open. A new wave of free
That has crashed right into to me, and besides,
I cannot see
For I can pretend
Not to hear,
Not to feel,
Not to care.