the times

your pulse rolls like a flower

into your neck; you open your arms; you open

your legs; it is not as important to be virginal

as it is to be aware

of your bones, the ones

in your shoulders

how they flap at the ground

when you allow it; how your eyes

fill with whatever star

comes spilling itself toward you, ready

to take you on

of course

it is safe to want you, because you don’t want me back. don’t write to me. don’t sing to me through those bloodlet songs. Don’t think I don’t know this. Is it my fault that you are in Eldorado’s pine trees when night falls?

We are bound to dance our deaths down. What it comes to. What I ended. The curtains refuse to move. The glass is thick enough, I believe. The air ended, there. Somewhere there is music I can almost hear. Somewhere the upper branches of the pines are aware of snow. But not (yet) of falling.

morning with unlined clouds

You said, “How will I find you again?” And I didn’t know.

Here, I stand orange in the long fields of silence between us. An anguish I refuse to acknowlege creeps in my neck at night, and washes at my tongue. I want to use the long fields to burn you in effigy, as I burn, turning from my own heart, but my hands won’t relinquish your shape. I remain among the grasses where I went when I left you. No path here. But I remember when there was.

The clouds refuse to hear me. The answer to your question: that kind of finding is past, we believe  

two days

go by. it is curious to me how we all muster

ourselves from the dust of a world whose motion we are drunk with;

it is curious to me how one could believe in ghosts, without god, or in nothing

at all, which is all

we should be

here

leaves curl around the cold

the way we all hold what we cannot see

to where happiness lives

lonely as though the snow could give me violins

all night I knew I could gather the prayers of other people from the dark

and then the trees

held a readiness for light

and went on beginning

the sky

from this point, the beginning

of it all,

today

it is supposed to snow

outside you can feel

small animals underground

moving in your slow

feet,

you can see the darkness

and how
this kind of wind

connects everything, even you.

afterwards

your face faded into dream

the way mountains began

to take up all the space I used to look through and

memory did its snow-down-fall and shimmy and the trees

built limbs like spines

and cracked

all night long

I wanted to know who

would goddess your lamps

from now on, who

would muse the aspen leaves

The First Morning

it begins simply: 

Back patio

Rushed with sun

And my legs

Stretched between trees

And concrete

Shadow

I read a book that doesn’t matter

But makes me laugh & cry & the sky

Goes on and on above me

And I think I’m gonna make it

Out of the four walls of fear

I left to get here

I get it

Inside my skin

And there’s no rush

Anymore and

it’s good.