They circle and buzz around you,
these others you don’t touch.
You’re told to stay in your circuit
and cache yourself in your niche;
catch yourself on the precipice
of your words, before they speak
Because that would mean collisions—
or so you’re told.
Descent and burning,
the pain of gravity and magnetic poles…
On a quiet street of brick and oaks,
the mind of high summer:
a pale green notion of sound
cicadas, thinking with their wings —
possessing the treetops
in irridescent plunder
like the sacred scarabs of Egypt,
land of our bondage…
…When I drive on the Mohawk trail,
it’s a sort of sex—car and road
on full alert, breathing in rhythm
to the changing scenery.
A shift from two to three dimensions;
a falling, lurching into something
My senses can’t sleep
as this topographic music
approaches its peak, temperature dropping
degree by degree—the slow towns and farms
all passed far behind me; inclines shifting
as my car swerves like a pinball on its curves.
The Cold River’s ominous congress
through rocks, deafening—
reminding me that this road
is dangerous, and people die on it…
A tree falls dead at my feet.
In its wake, black wire serpents
flail. Their sparkler tails
burn and flare—
a sort of sati
portending missed voicemails
of suicide and love:
the cords snap,
cell phone towers down
and I’m blank
as the matte-slate air—…
Scrawled graffiti on my brain.
I’m tired. My garden is dying
and waiting for rain. I’m sore
and losing the words that capture
my feelings. Boxes, blankets,
windows, seashells: the hermit crabs
of my thoughts scuttle barebacked
across the hot sand.
I needed the ocean…
…you shared with me the riddle
your ancestors passed down in secret—
if I solved it, you told me,
I would understand
it will sound too easy,
but wait, you warned me—
soon I’ll realize
that life itself
solely for this mystery
so I observed the clouds first—
since that’s where water came from,
but they told me to look to the ocean…
My moon is full tonight
and the grass is growing blue.
The cool marble of my skin
with the breath of your breath
before it touches you.
The halls between my fingers have opened
and are waiting for yours to crawl inside.
The night’s too long
and the space too far