sunset. everything to be done will

be done over. crises caressed. fear

of the straight path.

***

autumn. burn windows and die with

the rose. time of drowning. last

life long chance.

 

butterflies are mating. tortures go on. metamorphosis

at the crossroads has killed peace. streets walk with their heads

held low. the floor of the ocean is no longer a dream.

 

fixed direction is the disease of roads. but whispers

swarm at the center of being. from artists with winged

hands there is much to learn. of wholeness and wild honey.

 

there is a small boat waiting. in the middle

of the page. where a poem begins. and goes

no further. serenity. a map of the heart completed.

 

beyond the past of where we were born. is the september of wanting

to bring someone there. by hands which cannot stop the little good

gone wrong. to a heart that dies slowly. our permanent home.

 

beneath the old house dim forests grow. black walnut

dreams drop weary shadows. windows flutter and break

against dawn. cold mist frees itself from river.

 

as his lover comes home he thinks about which story.

at the center of a drop of rain is there stillness. is there voice.

the answer is a wound. but so unimportant. and yet he trembles.

 

silence in a poem grows the way death roots. hand to mouth

to moon. with not one mystery less than needed. to guard what

least understands. with a heart open to all. and to none.

 

against the symmetry of coyote's penetrating eyes. we feed

mouthfuls of soul to our mirrors. expose the sex

of the rose to winter's raw light. read genesis as procreation.

 

like time spent in front of a silent piano. i have shown you

to no one. taste of self. i walk on our skin. without letters to trace

the space between us. skin cold as the flesh of shadow.

 

rain falling through old soles. the empty sees into the

empty. and we've come home again. the shallow of night pulls

off our clothes. under the rusted tongues of bridges.

 

death invented man on a day without inspiration. ashes

slept on the edge of the knife. a broken tree bled vinegar

and salt. no one was left tearless. in a universe without tears.

 

these hands are like brothers. one weaker than the other.

one loved more. one wields the knife. the other cleans

a small church. we have great admiration for their faith.

 

a tree of singular stature towers above above

an unpitying field. where a boy begins to know. 

love wears the mask worn by the one who shapes silence.

 

a divided window dissects the sky. cemetery

plots. canceled mind. nothing falls to earth without

emitting light. dark voice. bruised eyes.

 

 

one by one by one by one. men pass buckets.

the hand counts its fingers. the ocean inventories sand.

nights leave without a dream. suns reappear.

 

a fist of clouds burst the heart. everything

in wind became theft. everywhere was music but silent.

creation of the one who was never found. and now there is autumn.

 

kneels to drink. drink your face from the wind.

those waters where absence is kept. deserves the dust

and ashes of your bed. whose night is full of holes.

 

used by pain for joy. by stone and salt for

polish. preferred food of fire. without taking a

backward step. or losing the power to leave one undone.

 

what swims ashore. and what is driven aground.

innocence. balance. the morning star. rainbows

above the wearied dead should not end in gold. tears.

 

some learn to fear the garden. where the rose

was a false flower. messengers enter and leave without

a trace. and the orchid knows in its heart it will be injured.

 

seedling of an exhausted species, whose language can i speak.

word is wind. and sky, windless.

leaves give tongue until their skin burns green.

 

on the first day of life. rain stands alone in the field. and

there is no place that is not someone else. on the first day

of death. the moon begins counting its delicate birds.