sycamore shines like a skull. happy to be alone. alive.

we pull off our clothes. look deep into each other.

death says we were born to become water.

 

the white rose dies unable to bleed.

and the dreamer in the green curl of a wave

remains as dry as a star.

and the smallest voice that can be heard

is as thin as the wall between us.

 

the light of the path

rains down upon me

and the moon has left her home

 

and the solstice, shall it fail this year?

and how many know the solstice of ruin,

and live a brief life shivering in the sun?

 

in winter when thirst is past. i will try

to remember the creamy flesh of silence. made ready

without the pain of words. in peony.

 

a long path. like one's father.

with no voice. no warning.

that the cold cannot believe in each other.

 

past the time of blossoms.

the heart follows her children.

past sunset. past stars.

 

shadow. the color of sleep.

or the color of life remembering

another life.

 

move the stone from its place. i go blind.

peck an eternal spiral on the skin of the stone.

turn me into light.

 

ironweed. the holy motive of wildflower.

green begins to rain inside chrysalis. and within

rain's iron interiority, a torch.

 

like a bell that is about to ring. like the swim

in a midnight harbor. with the strength of arcs and arches.

spirals. path's completed. darkness flowers.

 

the black suit fits. like a bruised sky.

moths flee my shadow.

dusted with light.

 

summer sun licking firewood dry.

sweet scent. sap blood.

subtle spirit of fire.

 

june. the sky is voice. the lake

walks beside me. we are barefoot.

we are a poem. i did not think i was writing.

 

shall i find my way through summer by the map on a monarch's wing