6/27/17




to write on paper cold and dark    is to dream the cross as crystal






is it light i see through a tear in translucence    or the voice i once sent forth






water pulls my hand deep into its pockets    loves the drowning i do not love






eyes of the dead finally open and open    each  knot in the moon untied



6/25/17




flood is for the rescue of something held over our heads    then mud turning back into children






in colors opposed to color    in the garden of a smothered hand    she painted her windows open



6/23/17




a simple word bleeding, wrapped in a shroud    the sky as barefoot as birds






in the long silence of the lie is the child you first loved forcing his ashes to sing



6/22/17




no laurel could touch me while the poet was living when God was the odor of the moon



6/21/17




murmur of a wave whose body is bleeding :: what i see beyond the end of the rose



6/17/17




we know what is coming is no more closed than the blade lying in bed beside me



6/16/17




the way home keeps changing its face until i have no life that hasn't started to live






bending against the snow that falls from God    nothing else can be so still






the awful defeat of a little town    is a wind or a star inside me






where the other face of night is looking    is to be kissed by what the young poet saw



6/15/17




in the sands of the moon a dream horse roams    thus i had no model for life



6/6/17




in the voice of the dew as it bleeds a rose    if i forget the origin of love



6/4/17




i remember the motionless hanging    as if to die    in the sky of another's pain






who wiped the ears of the dust away and sang without voice the creation of song