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
of landings.
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
like love.
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…
I have just learned
the dark secret
of the sun:
he only seems
to share his warmth
with everyone,
but this charity
is only illusion:
really he is seeking
the elusive moon—…
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:
basement
trapped
the cords snap,
cell phone towers down
and I’m blank
as the matte-slate air—…
If I can overcome
this whiteness
that blots out the horizon,
I can conquer my own soul
I didn’t want them to see
my hands shaking on the poles
or how I cried
each time I fell
(like it was something personal)…
You wonder
if I’ve built
you a pedestal.
Actually,
it’s more of
a crucible—
we have all
the gold coins
at our disposal,
but I don’t want
you to be Midas
all the time…
I accumulate you in layers.
Your mica patina
glints on my rocks,
a silver comet sparkle
on ragged window sheets—
pages of a novel
the earth once wrote
to the sun…
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
everything—
it will sound too easy,
but wait, you warned me—
soon I’ll realize
that life itself
is happening
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…
You circulate through the air
like pollen, and the sunlight
that streams through the front door
you always leave open.
You watch the feeder for goldfinches
and mix turmeric into your morning shake…
My moon is full tonight
and the grass is growing blue.
The cool marble of my skin
is breathing
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
tonight—…
