death removed its shoes an instant

before the flash.

our pulse already dust.

 

stones turn no one away. always speak kindly of strangers.

they would make a fine civilization.

poetry with calloused hands.

 

lift up the sheet where

sleep spills its blood.

ferns dripping in the shade.

 

huge blue wings rise, fly. flow away.

i hear nothing.

lake unhurried. clouds fully awake.

 

such turmoil in my dreams! so many

souls unliving! psyche's cauldron brewing

ashes and a beginning....

 

we begin our heart        with one wing

 

a tree of singular stature towers

above an unpitying field. my shadow. 

a mask. with eyes like small wet stones.

 

a hand reaches down, delivers

a postcard from heaven—

carrara marble, stigmata, 1964 world's fair.

 

poets with poets wafting from their mouths—

what's really going on...

my warped flame dances with the dark one's heart.

 

inside the dying of my apple tree

forests shed old rain.

the house of souls stands like haze.

 

sunlight grows lovingly across the ceiling

for the eyes of the infant lying on his back.

the stone i have struggled with finds its place at last.

 

lie down in fire. side with

the defeated. twist the 

sublime and ubiquitous spiral.

 

a deep hole opens in my shadow—

a black umbrella turned to ash.

the breath of one risen from the dead climbs out.

 

always thought water would listen to the mouth of every sigh.

that life's flame it would take care not to extinguish,

nor hide its harbors just out of reach.

 

first we open newly fashioned eyes.

then we climb with limbs of light

the tree, the branch, the fallen flower.

 

when know the wars are over when

death puts a finger to our lips.

when death takes off our shoes.

 

late day. four panes

of rippled glass. sun and self exhausted

by the weight of the task.

 

doorway of the morning i love :: that you bring me back in

 

sweet work, to :: think in songs

 

a path opens between the eyes of a deer.

geese drown in an infinite sky.

hands stroke a wind that has lived out its life.

 

she is older than when she died.

grandmother is.

i worry she may fall going down the stairs.

 

the child you were whispers something unheard...

i've sown the seed of a galaxy!

sunflowers are stepping into snow!

 

what to do with the box in the basement.

childhood searches for an answer.

moonlight sings on the skin of a breeze.

 

in some lives, windows sleep.

they hide death in yesterday's breeze,

bury silence in a forest of wounded trees.

 

i don't want new songs with old knees.

learn. listen.

            where burns the fog one must become.

 

peak of summer, firewood mosaic

stacked piece by piece.

the only shelter near, snow white clouds.

 

one can heal

and another is healed by being wounded.

death stands some souls up on their feet.

 

when i was different

hummingbirds stood in mid-air, stared in.

we are living it again.

 

horses lie down beside me, one nuzzles my back.

dream life. july.

strawberries feed from my hands.

 

from whether.com

grievous heat is the asphalt forecast

skies are to remain emaciated by self doubt

while the outlook for death, terminally obese, is congestive failure of heart

 

by what thread will i spin when the sun unravels

will the last of my bodies fly away with the geese

knowing your purpose is the fall of rain

                                                                        how gently can you live

 

another ocean

but the same helpless island.

choice vanishes into a willow at dusk. rain rolls in.

 

a monotonous ferry ride

to stand alone in the wind

waiting for the beginning.

 

the first dawn is too small to wake the soul.

but an island emerges.

eyes reopen.

 

bullets of rain.

children will try to fill the holes in their sky.

basement world, weeping walls.

 

whose gospel has left my heart unread.

whose sun

shall speak my eyes.

 

July 2

a gate left open

poems one would be glad to have written

sunlight is a room where nothing is forgotten

 

before wisdom comes

we know

hands and trees shall be broken

 

millions of light years

of one bottomless dream

watches over my sleep

 

new prints in the forest clay.

cumulus builds a sky.

whose shadow goes slipping away.

 

the audience calls out a name

the name dies instantly, cries to god

is made flesh, bleeds, dies

joins the audience, calls out a name

 

water pulls my secret

deep into its pockets.

loves the drowning i do not love.

i will know it

    outside the dream

when it comes

    behind the calm

because it breathes

 

sunset.

because i can die i am living.

everyone i love but do not know opening in the wind.

 

corn and clover.

where am i going...

the secret never arrives.

 

untied from its willows

the river dies.

stars graze on time in the desert sky.

 

gathered the freedom

to be an anchor

wandering among the waves.

 

restoring the egg to its skimpy nest :: gently closing its eye

 

can you sew me a pocket :: filled with answers and doves

 

stepped into life's water

stone without skin

felt for the first time cold winds

 

glimpsed outside

on a weathered sign—

blood that flows

between two hearts

will never answer to time

 

peace to the death

which becomes a rose

peace to the heart

which greens you

 

our music preserves the echo :: of stones washing the sea

 

the sky you awakened in the eyes of the rain :: holds the moon the night and the reason to remain

 

let wild seed wake before the rains grow old :: before the moon is shut out of your heart

 

washing my poetry i sweeten the sea :: until the green of your island is saved

 

moon sheds moon

opens an infinite eye

the risk of being reborn throbs through the sky

 

to be water that has not found a well

            to die young

                        fallen from a cloud

 

if there is a gate it will be left open

if there is a border may the dead guide you over

the road follows where you go

 

birth was a drama that one member of the cast does not remember

 

soul

not substance but naked 

            —voice in a mirror with tiny cracks —

where the other face of night is looking

             —kissed by what the poet sees —

resisting all that falls from god

             —nothing else can be so still

 

just enough darkness to forest the world :: then light dawns in one leaf

 

last drops of rain in hands of a breeze    stirring what others need

 

in the throb beneath a drop of blood :: i feel my wounds at war

 

in the oar i've abandoned i long for the sea

 

when its suffering's washed away :: what remains of clay

 

let's awake in the garden others can't see

            naked as the moon turning dust to dream

 

does water remember the child in its arms bleeding his beautiful pearls of breath

 

there is sky in my arrow :: there is no path to my sky

 

can you remember the touch of your hand as it gave you the power to heal

 

is memory the only place the dead are given light to see

 

shooting star with the strangest ending :: eyes of the living

 

hands unravel

wheelbarrow topples

soul rejoices in flame

 

shapes created by the gods of pine—

             ships on a cliff

             a cross without arms

 

on which side of my skin is sky

 

i dream of hundreds of broken windows

and of she who reveals

the stone in my heart

 

will there be a brief moment, infinite,

            to take this in—

i have gone the great distance bound in one skin

 

singing to be alone and not alone        sweep sweep my aging path

 

how the cave where we could see really see there are openings

became the star

i hold inside

 

how strange that nowhere should be nearby :: like the wound in my sip of wine

 

my sun is not substance but naked :: to the infinite shadows of light

 

dead wood beautiful failures

forgotten rains

the light that leads my way

 

there are days windows sleep

            there are days when death hides in yesterday's breeze

why is silence peaceful in a forest of wounded trees

 

dream looked around inside the child

            found room    burned

                        a Ferris wheel down

 

rain alone there has never been :: rain on morning skin

 

will all that is stone return to flesh

isn't deep where old snows fall

whose hand understands the genius of its palm

 

a circle of stones

where the circle doesn't close

death comes and goes

 

bound together

            grains of sand begin to breathe

we shall hear the oceans drowning

 

strange to be immortal

            stars tasting my mouth

i shall grow a yellow house

 

first day of life

the moon counting

its delicate birds

 

streets walking with their heads held low :: i climb a distant radio

 

what did blue see from its window before it became an eye

 

a voice for things which don't exist :: i am egyptian in silence

 

are the passages missing from my shadow

written

on a fallen leaf

 

found asleep beside the weariness of spring

your mother when she was young

yet changed

 

a man breaks down

who was it you ask, what

was the weight of the stone

 

keeper of the solitary soul

permit me space

among the flocks of this earth

 

on a day without sound

adrift on a lake

my grave is unhurried

 

my hands cry out all night in their sleep

dawn rises

a hole in its palm

 

lord, why do i grow cold trying to keep you alive