does the voice of one who is dead gamble away the phantoms one knows

the eyes of the sheet you lowered over your body stop at dawn

more silence in life than life in the universe—sky, at other times

i am back in the house a child would know the instant sky goes to stone

when weeds make me their living path    into a canyon too inessential to follow

i refuse to inherit anything smaller than god's journey through our rooms

from the portrait of the man born a slave    i walk outside of healing

and what if the heart giving birth to the child prefers the hush and the heat of an attic

what lightning remembers will never wound    is the moon returned to its river

leaning over the edge of august    the horn of the wounding moon was true

who is ironweed staggers stars    this hand i dipped in its spring

too dark to tell the sun i have seen where the last garden on earth has run

one chord of light searingly close but you learn the guide that guides the hand

and if i could find my child as a child again in the memory of blue Japanese iris

if i knew the name you called yourself    would that rub sight into my eyes

captives are those who return and return—i am a potato surrounded by mountains

how do we gather whispers of blood as they fall from a buried shadow

from the trees there is a cry, saddled, waiting    is the sound of the dark in our house

why do elderberries continue to dream until each drop of blood returns

keeping things whole in the absence of wind :: here's a body gathering its shell

call of the owl beside a dream :: or a pine taking leave of the night

years pass in a single white blossom    i think no one looks in or out

how is it i know the escape of small winds has answered the prayers in my breath

in the early life of the mother of the rose    you are the one afraid of flowers

learn to breathe water you will find the other forest

the other secret in the touch of a hand    life in the absence of light