and yet who has noticed how the one left behind becomes the final light


how near to what my heart has done is the warmth of the stranger's mouth


who will guide us through the days ahead    is to live newly awakened

the sleeper under the pine remembers what is young    the dark that steps out at dawn


the way the last walk hurries grass    is where the ash of the rose will fall

silence into water into blood into light    is to ask a simple question

how old shall we be when the white sail of the moon leads October through everlasting change


what if the other side of humankind is only thinner air

if you have made me small enough   the whirl wind must

what has died is kept in this city in ginkgos along the streets


the memory i left in another place    is it destroyed, or sleeping


a night train rises up inside of sleep    carrying the one left behind when we were born


year after year of pokeberries :: their ripening barely heard


in the pure mist of a distant mountain    the nest not seen for years

when night is full of holes    will i see what is in me from the first day of living


can a pine from the sea ever fall to the earth

if light is grave and motionless there is no distance to lying down

what i do not have looks for me :: and there is no place that is not someone else


time has come for that bit of life gone missing to turn my cornfields pale


windowpanes across a whole life overlooking the mists and cliff


even a heart in the hands of its children will grow snowy white


though the water is down on its knees :: many pass in a dry rain


my heart walks in sunlight and feels itself fade—
while chimes turn wind
into creation


from my window i studied mulberry branches—
             dormant rhythms of nights and days,
of unrepeatable worlds to be


the sole of the foot
treads on beauty—
those smooth tracks
across the sea
i couldn't
have made and
cannot follow


under other skies
            is there deeper longing
for the damp electricity from which we come


i hear the blood ask us
                         if we are alive—
the heart remembering what it does not recognize

      Vanishing points

where the apple tree rose
            from the earth
when i learned to live as a soul


a memory that opens the road is what we want :: honey drawn raw from the moon

when the windows of the bonfire seethed open :: not one of my old failures was there


that hollow in the west where the sun dissolves :: salt gathering in the ripples of life

winds hang silent and limp in the rain :: lives lived without having happened


in the weariness of spring :: all my fences fell asleep :: the unknown began speaking to its neighbor


the cup of my tulip is infinitely deep :: blood islands floating through murmurs of light


grasses of eternity grow over my roof :: a message drifts through the sky


morning flew away with wings that never crossed a dream :: morning left standing in rain


...and the hands of white orchids have no other purpose :: than to lose themselves in the heart 

my name is the hammering which never ceases :: a secret with wings that knows no rest

what no one was interested in (a death in which)
                                                         gave him a way of being (the music keeps playing)


don't yellow sands and lost bones know the world ends without grief


there is a tulip here in the darkness :: no moon to stand beneath


you and i awash in sleep
            while winds rise and fall
carrying fire, and the place the fire was


i have a dream i've watched
            compose itself slowly—
                        the one who builds her nest from dawn


all the room in the world
            is a grain of stillness—
                        the life that comes to life when the last word is spoken


       reach into the space of  your wanting—
a soul there, stretched across dark water
       and no consciousness of beginning over


a seed in the soil doesn't know it has eyes
           but you, suspended in air, use
                       your eyes to deny the invisible