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
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
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
no laurel could touch me while the poet was living when God was the odor of the moon
murmur of a wave whose body is bleeding :: what i see beyond the end of the rose
we know what is coming is no more closed than the blade lying in bed beside me
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
in the sands of the moon a dream horse roams thus i had no model for life
in the voice of the dew as it bleeds a rose if i forget the origin of love
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