what if everything else was taken out of me except the parade within the dream

isn't God that moment the mirror in your mind breaks


eyes that open at midnight in a room deep in a whisper

i made a man without a face
                                                who sat there quietly dreaming


within a pearl
my silences are sky
                        oak tree with one eye open

isn’t a moon
the choice between
birth and dream


where do the dead stop being dead
                                                                        and marry in wine-colored dresses


there are rooms in the house one should not enter
                                                                                                strong winds that only whisper

who is the owner
                                 of what arises
                                                            between your soul
                                                                                               and the cave filled with sky


when i retrieve my bones from the vulture's wings i find they've learned to whisper


when my heart turns yellow how far will i be from the gaze of the sea

is the voice that speaks after your body is forgotten heard in silence or sleep


the pattern in the rain filling other people    your house goes on to live alone


one can never see all the way inside the tapping of an abandoned crutch

is it a question with the face of a yellow bird that is trapped inside your mirror


i dreamed an eclipse
to see the moon dreaming
climbed into the sky and died

where are we going when we get there together
of eternity    soft
            wrist of the sky
on which         side of death
            is rest


my eclipse reveals what the moon is dreaming    the shine of what cannot be gathered


the wound her cheek left on the moon longs to be still alive

the way to see light was once in the sky    and the moon bright with forgetting

little child where the moon hides her blood    passes through my heart


i love when it rains an open sky    mountain silently watching inside


how shall i speak to the fingers of your name as they sow my blood and water


men used as graveyards    nothing left of nothing    my hands unravelling inside


a fire as small as my sleep in your side    is the eye of the heart

the dream outside of me i somehow startled    a brightness i did not do

my light hangs from the sky like death in a hive    like salt opening its hand


blue is brave    like speaking from the space inside a seed    like night on god

child to the thirsty sea    do not teach but draw me


the tenderness of a stem in my mouth :: what cannot be gathered from your eyes

when do we risk becoming a river isn't a question of desire


because the clear song of the sky must be preserved my roof melts away in the cold


when started i was dust    dew filled with moon    fire in an unformed mouth


how did crows in a sky that has never been become the light of the world


we undress together    down to our satchel of lost poems    refusing to be more than alive


a corpse knows nothing about its garden    the way we live is not even dying

the two ends of the sky hang from one stark tree    a day too cold to plant death

yearning for the honey of the sadness of your skin    i give in to the moon in the window


in this garden that grows what cannot be acquired    my darkness quivers with snow


between stone and star i have learned slowly    how on one black wing we spin

in the ear of the cry between sycamore and moon    i open all my windows


those who say there is no one to see    is where every living thing has gone


in a field full of light and death    it grows hard to see the one who will come


winter stars slip into us one by one    the skies of our vanishing grow large

within the rose who never tires    my heart gives birth to many hands


the dying sun stares into my sky as if awakening is near


a small horse leans
into her juniper tree—
no other life but sky

because i also cling to birth
this december sun
is warming


the little river is watching
            and crows that stitch the morning sky
                        and those who have died    but had eyes


dreams that visit when we are most awake :: the snow i bury underground

piece by piece    like the wood i split    to feed flames that are going blind


the inner space of snow is vast and skin—do i hear our yearnings agree?



orchid bud swells inside
so many suns crowding the exit
i give birth to a sky that refuses to curve


what i want to say drew
its last breath—
            beheld became what can’t be changed

cut limbs falling
upon awakened ground—
            the silence that follows called wound


the driver of the chestnut mare is waiting like a friend
black cart quiet
the wind you’ve become


today we cleaned the gardens for winter
left smoking piles of disbelief
dug up a crescent moon


i hear the clatter of nothing falling
at midnight in the kitchen—
my wife wakes up, dies
sunlight weeping from her eyes


sat through the storm last night
            wondered where all that rain fell—
tight roof, sound mind, eternity chasing its tail

freshly made, i twist in the wind
            snake skin returning to an earlier molt
            the dark in a dog set to howl


a catalpa leaf bares its teeth, rakes
my face over and over
makes blood flow clear as water

i stand naked in the wind this morning
sky flies backward toward a sun
darker than light can see


like the child up in a tree
staring lost through swarming leaves
your being has entered the dream


squirrel will be killed again yesterday
there on the road—
whose future measured by the number of feeding crows


moon whimpers
harvesters slit the night
father cannot find child in the stubble of the field


the night i wasn’t conceived
still stirs the mind—
blue leaves gently coming loose


the calm face is in another country
another world—
we walk from Ohio to vote for it

the joy of motionless motion
comes after death
when you are the morning every ginkgo leaf falls

traveler sleeps late, hurries away
neighbor outside raking dreams
answer the ringing phone with imbricate possibilities


my face slides off in a November rain
swirls round the circular drain
sucked into the moon

rain before dawn
dawn ends the dream
the rain could be starlings, or not


my skin is old
you can see to anywhere through it

cracks in my ceiling
close themselves to hear
footsteps of moss on the roof

when the fly on the screen
            crawled out of my eye
                        there was an entire world to build


a little sunlight travels
from nowhere outside
lies down in the gutters i clean



the act of alone
is giving birth inside me
she holds one ginkgo leaf in her hand

my silent womb
your useless wings
each life leashed to its unreal binding

she stepped into the water
a stone without skin
felt for the first time cold winds


the distance from every star to here
is here—haar
connects every dark center to dark


concrete sun sinks into ruin
now my roof leaks the sorrow of light
now we must believe in the sleeping mind

just before dawn the sky is slick with ice
one could fall and die
where wild geese are dreaming


of more than can be borne
there are stains—
how else could we come to be

what belongs in the earth
has been give cold wings
not unlike birth without a sound


so i get here slowly
on footsteps half-finished
a maple leaf torn free in the blast

small light in heart
flickers to the stars
remembering for the first time it is lost


a neighbor's sweet gum tree was hollow
and those inside said they never heard more
than the barking of the moon


mother's face multiplied
in numberless drops of rain
till she knows what it is i see

a hard and difficult rain drives us outdoors
as small animals in cages
addressed to fire

four crows named Jesus fly
into a neighbor's naked maple tree—
in white skin death wraps me


i look back at my empty shoes
is how flesh
must leave the sea


brought us all to quiet without warning    no hint of eternity or dust