to nowhere, or everywhere

here you are and i’ve found you again
underneath the gentle sand and folded shells.
like whispered winter,

or the time we spent counting the frozen
leaves still dangling from the stoop weeds.

can you please reread this moment in
the gentle sunlight, can you please re-
read the tally of how many lovers have
forced us to becoming?

there are lost souls in the lake and they
are trying to remind us to let go of all
the things we are not.

fold yourself in underneath these
sheets and allow me to trace
something else, lines from every
point of energy to absolutely
nowhere.

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lost in a day-ghost

pull out from underneath the ratted sheets.
the day is old when i wake like this.

this day is bred from wrinkled shrink wrap
and crumpled up ash.

i breathe into and out of the pose the lake holds
as though through the imitation, i could
be the peace the rest of the universe
settles itself into.

pull out from underneath the faded light.
the day is old.

i’ve quit the sticks, i think,
so i can learn to listen to
magnetic pins again.

when you remember to,
come find me.

so just let love be love, or take it anyway

why have you pulled
against my tender wrists

i spent all day
whittling away
just to pull the
strings tight
again

come and breathe with me
come and see that there is no thing
as the falling snow
or the ever orange sun.
those words don’t belong to them.
so can’t you let them
be just what they are?

not even a step is a step,
but you take it anyway.
and a flower is not a flower,
but you take it anyway.

yet another season passes

cold winds blow and between
buildings i can feel the shock
of another

friendship falling to time. did
time make agreements with
forgetfulness

or is everything that ends
in bone spurs done with
volition?

when the sun rose slow
and ached as it pulled
only just

high enough, my friend
laughed again and wond-
ered how

i keep forgetting everything.
how i forget the green
grass and

how i forget the summer
dust. see it now whistling
in the cobble

stones. i can’t keep my
mind on straight, i tried
to whisper.

you can tell the skill-
ful life by the flowers
it will bloom,

the Buddha whispered
again and again and ag-
ain, and

to count the times
your sorry mind
has tallied the times
and shadowed
itself
in chalk and lye?

so what can i make of
the smoke around my
fingers and

the browned out vines
that tap tap tap on my
frosted

windowpane?