.
I cradle my head
in my palms

There's an inerasable vision
of hearts and bones
inwoven in a spider web

Untied forget-me-nots
writhing disentanglement

A collage of all the dead roses ,
tawny petals bestrewn across
a fallow frozen mind-scape ;

hidden behind eye-lid's
hesitantly arising curtain

just like a noir movie screen

I saw love disfigure me


                                                       *wild is the wind ... December 4th, 2016

Over and back,
the long waves crawl
and track the sand with foam;
night darkens, and the sea
takes on that desperate tone
of dark that wives put on
when all their love is done.

Over and back,
the tangled thread falls slack,
over and up and on;
over and all is sewn;
now while I bind the end,
I wish some fiery friend
would sweep impetuously
these fingers from the loom.

My weary thoughts
play traitor to my soul,
just as the toil is over;
swift while the woof is whole,
turn now, my spirit, swift,
and tear the pattern there,
the flowers so deftly wrought,
the borders of sea blue,
the sea-blue coast of home.

The web was over-fair,
that web of pictures there,
enchantments that I thought
he had, that I had lost;
weaving his happiness
within the stitching frame,
weaving his fire and frame,
I thought my work was done,
I prayed that only one
of those that I had spurned
might stoop and conquer this
long waiting with a kiss.

But each time that I see
my work so beautifully
inwoven and would keep
the picture and the whole,
Athene steels my soul.
Slanting across my brain,
I see as shafts of rain
his chariot and his shafts,
I see the arrows fall,
I see the lord who moves
like Hector lord of love,
I see him matched with fair
bright rivals, and I see
those lesser rivals flee.

dark leaps when
there is the frothing light
beaming a sizable aureole
on your face
this evening
and its palpable brigade.

dark is having your
inwoven dress free
from swaying
pressed against raucous
facelessness of things
rogue and renegade.

and when i have you
not, shining the light
and its intone,
wind felt like
stabs or
i in attendance
of a crazed vaudeville—
trapeze is the hinge
of the void
afloat, upstream, space-hovering;
a display of love
   and not so much
is shown of the vertigo
trapped in a square,
a face
impinged in the seamlessness
of this fabulation
when you've gone
quickly fading out;
    
     light is my remember,
o, dark my
     forgetling.

I count the inwoven stars
maybe I could find your smile
in the bright tangles of night

dark inwoven vision seeking clear,
   pure — smiths a dagger.

when you told me
some are the abeyant,
  in that terse communal,
some out
   of print

     Radio
Body English
    Silent Radio's
writing of an english
   Body cursive and lithe

i arranged all things:
TV, escritoire, left a place for
   a machine, drone of minutes
and the fixed gore of absence
  all wounds avulse, words
to wring realm of bones.

image of men is no huddled God
  in the synagogue pew;
this is the distinct cadence of
  the indescribably beautiful:
when words continue to bleed
they will never go out of print
and they will mint something in the soul
without a word, or a gesture,
   or an insignia of attendance.
their benign  dreams   prowl
    upstream,

     your dreams,
i willingly go, rising, falling
   riding all the darkness.