crossed a field where the plows stopped turning.

where a tree without arms buried the sun.

odor of black sounds. plum blossom stars.

 

a life i lived before continues to turn. down and down

the same flight of stairs. repeatedly opening closed doors.

rhythms of unflowing time. the night of the fire never survived.

 

how god is fire. or the voice of 3 am.

she says we are what we cannot see.

dawn waits in the bed of awakening.

 

may i live as the oak to lightning

 

spring leaves. painted a small red. 

almost lost in slightly taller sounds. 

death process upside down.

 

windy evening. colors too weary

to walk the world. stones too weary

to mount a wall. a poem washed in shadow.

 

the black suit fits.

for three days.

ferns drip in the shade.

 

rain spreads from the east. from the face in a window

where he might have lived. ages of dust fly from his hands.

dew upon  a faultless mountain.

 

 

loving each moonrise does not redeem life.

nor fishing a river after rain.

there's an empty moment banging against the wall.

after miles of darkness, what wants to be said?

 

numbers fail. a knot begins.

shadows clothe themselves in skin.

the prayer bleeds each time she prays.

banners tear in the absence of wind.

 

beyond an open gate, hanging chimes.

cold gives birth to snow.

where will we go when earth returns to her home?

 

in that which is sown i have lived.

upon concave walls etched visions of life.

while birth stood near. held a branch of light.

 

how far is the reach of a flash of darkness

how can a tree without limbs guide the sun

doesn't milk mixed with night form blood