Elizabethan

The desert sky is wild and red but even he soon pales,
As the mother long horizon calls and cradles him to bed.
And one black thing circles low with black and outstretched sails;
The cracked and broken earth below tells no secrets of the dead.

Who knows but that the steady eye will catch the earth below,
To see a broken thing enthroned in the dry and bracken brush.
The black thing spirals down the sky until he comes to know,
The smell of warmth still leaving, and the breath of sudden hush.

And then these two may sit awhile; as his appetite allows,
Before the heart is ravaged and the mind is like devoured.
Feathers ripple off the bone; the beak recites its vows,
The black red thing is hurried on; too hungry to be coward.

The heart has filled the sky against a lonely scavenged night;
The sun and he will bleed brief hours before the final bite.

Forest of Fontainebleau

A walking stick
In this deep forest,
Thumbs along the earth.
This fallen tree beside you;
Wide enough to wrap your arms around
And not reach halfway.
Perhaps you will,
When the picture-taker has closed his eyes
To rest,
Reach around and hold;
Drag your legs to climb
Over; your heart feeling its
Beats against the wood.
Let the cane fall,
To roll and lie still
Beside a jagged cut friend.
You need this too;
In this deep forest,
Where you walk
With no one else near.

Milkmaid of Popindrecht

A dutch flower in one corner,
A chain lying in the other.
You stand between these things;
Above the dirt
And behind the hay.
You stand above the chain
And tarnished brass bellies;
Dangling one jug copper
Just barely in numb hands.
In your eye I see the paint crack;
These awkward fingers clamping the hip,
Jutting out.
A headdress with gold bangles
Enveloping your pale face;
These are not a milkmaid's.
Slant your hips,
And look away
From this,
Down on a patch of
Earth.
This is not the milkmaid,
But the sultan in the sun;
Desperate for a drop
To fall,
And gouge,
And clean,
Until the smell of paint
Carries no more
On the hands of flowers.

Jumping Dover

The white cliffs in the sky,
Like jumping Dover
I brush past crags and falls
to see what sleeps
on the other side.
These massifs are no
least immense,
no more of rock,
than these children
we scrape our knuckles on;
heights made from mist
I search out footholds
in the rolling white
wistful cliffs.

Dust Could Never Cover You

This rain we take to be
Stone's dew,
Is never said
To hold my own.
For you I shed it gladly,
And with long fingers
Create the tracks
Of dust,
I've stored for --
This long long time.

Stir

The sound of thunder scares
Some recognition from the soul;
Excitement in the wonder
Of what they're doing there,
Among the gods of flashes
And the gods of pounding tins;
One may hear above the wind,
The sounds of deep within.

These Lessons

These lessons we learn
Are counted,
In not so many strokes.
We think to be wiser,
We think to be grown.
But the winds will blow,
And the clouds will cover.
And we will continue to gaze
On the memory of stars,
Long ghosts.
Which will continue to shine
For our children.
Who will smile upon them
And imagine that they are new,
And meant for them.
Not imagining the black void;
Not understanding,
The warm breezes of a storm.

sadness, for real

So surprising how opaque.
Fear
of the dark.
Fear
of consuming.
So surprising how it quakes.
Sick
in my middle
Sick
of consuming.
So surprising to feel
Sadness, for real.

I lend out My Soul

Looking back,
My heart has hands
To carry to crawl
To you.
I'd stop to pick up every crumb
In the wide expanse between us
But looking back
A scarecrow lies in the grass
And the birds will come
Looking Back
Is not what I do
I lend out my soul
And get none of you.

A Lovenote for the Paperclip

I love you
For being who you are.
There is no need
To draw out your lines,
Your figure,
Strength and style,
Though you have all of these
And more.
There is no matter of purpose,
Nor of any benefit to me.
I love you for being;
I love you for existing,
At all.

Reach

I cannot reach my hands
I look down at the tips of me
I look down at the ends
but all remains what's left behind
a tricking of the light
They must be mine
These things,
that trail behind
because I watch the ghost
reach out
and see where skin and black
are not

Shadow's Tail

walking along the sun
my shadow rises from me.
the sun glancing over my shoulder
pulls at slender fingers;
breathing between the spaces.
I see the silhouette
of a slung bag
and a dark sweep
across my shoulders.
Looking up at my shadow
I wind back to the embarking,
and wonder if it shouldn't
be the other way around?

A Sick House

I never knew the taste of home
could taste so much of vomit
in my throat.
I never knew that missing it,
could make my heart lose sleep.
swimming to get back,
reaching to get back;
I retch at the hole inside me,
burning at the whisps
of things left behind.
I never knew the taste of home
Could make myself so small;
and all that's left is
black and soft.
It chokes me with revulsion.

A Dress Called Poet

This closet is lined
with walls with lines,
So quiet,
I press them in my palm.
so quiet i take them with me.
A dress i wear,
beneath the Homespun truth;
And no one dares to breathe
the Name;
so quiet.
Inside my dreams these walls are white,
and smoke curls up my collar;
the poet burning up my skin,
her ashes at my feet.

The Birds I've Burned

These winter branches are too thin to hold the birds I've burned.

Their soft white wings are singed with smoke like all my memories old.

I open up my ears to flocks of wings never returned.

The woodsman kisses blade to bark with all the stripes I've earned,

We stand in line, wait quietly, while he takes our daily toll.

These winter branches are too thin to hold the birds I've burned.

The whistle wind holds no songs, in all the sounds I've learned.

My limbs despise their burden light; they strangle empty hold.

I open up my ears to flocks of wings never returned.

My smiling faces once with feathers now with bones discerned

The golden new and silver old are given to smoke; sold.

These winter branches are too thin to hold the birds I've burned.

The warm days in dreams conjured; now morning has adjourned.

Now sheltered in the skeleton of branches bare and bold,

I open up my ears to flocks of wings never returned.

May I

Sister may I

Take two big steps.

May I wear your clothes,

Just the ones

You don't really use

Anymore.

Sister may I

Take a run through the forest,

Take your room;

Now that you've grown

You don't really need it

Anymore.

Sister may I

Take two steps back,

May I run

Back to the start.

Sister,

May I touch you?

May I feel your hand?

Now that you've grown

You're not really there

Anymore.

Snore

Lying in the dark

I imagine the sea

Several hundred miles out.

And it imagines me

Here.

The sound drifts to me,

Like sleep clouds over.

Breathe in,

The sea rolls it's wave

Deep within her cheek.

Breathe out,

The tide rolls out,

Its fingers pulling at the sand

Here beside you

I hear the ocean.

And inside your sleep,

I drift away.

The Danger of Tea Time

I sit up with my gloves on,

Off-white dingy but with no holes.

I am with the Other Girls.

The conversation travels around the table,

Sit straight cross legs keep hands folded on lap.

Try to imitate the glossy veneer so prevalent,

Slippery like magazine covers I hold but do not open.

I slowly awake to a whisper in my ear;

I am the only one with gloves on,

Legs crossed, sitting straight, hands folded.

The only one who needs a glossy cover.

I awaken to a lag in the conversation,

To hear the clatter of a tea cup,

Shaking as I reach to set it down

On china.

Joy

The sunspots fall down the sky,

Through the peaceful

Non-intruding clouds.

They fall on me,

To my center,

To my core;

A dangerous place

I do not reach for.

The comma curves,

So dark and soft;

Down.

Its downward slide

Seeks up,

Capturing the curve,

It holds in the breath.

But on a cloudless day

Without a storm to

Buffer these winds,

That fly free;

My face is open to the moment.

Why is this aching stillness

So remembrant of sadness?

My joy;

So often do I find it

With feelings like remorse,

It fills me and I,

Wait,

For the catch of breath

Return.

shaken petals

I wonder why this flower stayed

When all the other's left.

It must have seen the season's change

Yet it stared down icy death.

The tender bloom is layered ore'

With fresh white misted breath.

I wonder why this flower stayed,

when all the others left?