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 the 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.

 

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

 

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