i heard a life fall    or i heard nothing at all    the arms of the cross at my feet

will i see through the window that has fallen asleep    my casket carrying its rain

with the taste of stars in my mouth    whose wisdom am i ready to learn

that part of the sky that fell into my mind    is to whisper the name of the raven

what can you write on the skin of the past that only the sleepers will read

the gate of the moon left open    is to love what i cannot know

there comes a day when it will not open when i ask the sun its troubles

there was a black branch touching the silence where neither could remember waking

from hands you will never see spilling music for the first time because you are just arrived

streets walking with their heads held low ::  i climb the stairs of the rain

i love this song that was not heard until the moon was warm from its birth

this is the art of birth :: that the cold and the dead shall blossom

it is always there    gathered in scars    takes nothing away

the prayers you have answered are always somewhere else    yet so close as to be inside

it is the mouth of the moon i feel against my side :: where the wound of my death is not yet real

you were always no further than the moon can sail    no more than my eyes could gather

what you say is nothing we say about you    and the arrival of our silence is too late

what is there in me    no heavier than lightning    yet helpless in the gravity of light

for the sake of all burials and the flames of spring :: shall i marry the grief of the soil

all night long knowing and not knowing the figure asleep on the shore

there is a wild place we can build in the rain :: and give to each other the calm of night

as if someone in our shape enters the sun before us    there is a hole there in the light

what does the sleep of the rain have to do    with music the kingfisher heard

you keep calling and calling to the beginning of listening :: dawn

the downhill slope of endless light :: or the moon who cannot stop listening

whose question is the music you alone can dream

before there is knowledge    we know    how the hands and the trees will be broken

how far is the reach of a flash of darkness from this nest of borrowed rain