…Aeons.
Asleep in an amethyst cave
under a canopy of stars:
a struck geode, my skull’s soft cockle forms.
The shore evolves —
rhythm wet, slowed and cooled,
water — salt — moon —
shroud.
The pointillist smile of stars.
On the black shore,
bauxite — giant crystals,
opaque, white, and sandstone —
cacti of calculus,
tall mothers of the tide,
pale in the moonlight…
mother cat
let me crawl inside your
stealthy quiet
leather urgency
calling to me
from across the
shifting earth
mother cat
let me crawl inside
through this ancient winding
Broadway trail
of tears and remembrance
where cities fade—
grass to rocks
to these cliffs we climb naked
by the sea,
locking waves and moon
in our starlit tongues…
…The brain is a confusing place,
a space of fear and forests
and tests, where the inquisitive
won’t rest until each corner’s
mapped on some handy GPS,
but if passion leads you
to burn all the trees
and ask too many silly questions
you’ll be left with only brushfires
and a bad case of depression…
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 you played my heartbeat backwards,
would you hear subversive messages?
If I remain silent for long enough,
will flowers grow on my tongue?
Some would lament
the passing of time,
but I feel it more
like an elevator
that can move
in many directions,
or the slow lateral spread
of the banyan tree…
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)…
Dreamer,
new magician,
beware of wishes:
for they become living beings,
awaiting your coaxing touch.
Beware the ease with which
they fall into your unsuspecting arms
in basketless apple-bushels.
Beware the icy smoothness
with which they slip into your life
and snap the tense winter of waiting…
the sun keeps rising
your voice keeps calling
the sky keeps falling
into the heart of gold…
…The world hasn’t changed.
My heart still struggles against gravity.
The snow still falls and collects
by the seed cakes, where chickadees
fight over the squirrels’ sloppy seconds.
I still drift.
A neighbor is shoveling my snow outside;
I hear the blade scraping on pavement.
I’ve brought him Earl Grey tea in a travel mug
and went outside to trade small words.
It was hard—
I wanted to stay by the woodstove, pretending
I didn’t hear it, pretending I didn’t need this…
…I’ve decided to walk today, which is hard for me
but your hand is filled with shadows
that flow into my veins
and soften the weight of sun.
Everywhere around you, shadows cushion me.
I am bathing in the darkness of your light…
“When you’re five, endings are sweet.
The familiar turning of a car on your street
in your sleep, and the sighing of brakes
before the door opens to wake you
with the cool taste of night.
The sound of rustling paper—
last page falling on the story your mother
read you, when you’re already tucked in bed:
“The End,” in all-caps whisper—
“Sleep well,” ‘Good night.'”
