in my dreams are these memories
of tall boys playing me philip glass
and promising a lifetime of sweet things,
like dew drops on 4 o clock flowers
and weaving the thread between you and
i until the shadows stop swaying from left
to right and into oblivion.
you are trying to be beautiful boy but
what is in it?
i am built of the sun rain and grass, but
when you speak i am built of the bundle of
stress you’ve used to lace yourself together.
tell me that i’m doing it right, in between
these quiet rains and long trains. tell me
its only a whisper.
tell me there is sweetness in the world
outside. i have in my memory only air
and joy, only light and love.
finally, there is something else.
besides the salt dust and sea
gravel shifting beneath my feet.
besides memories of wide open
seas and holding hands with a
future that wasn’t mine.
for an hour she followed the lines
traced by raindrops in the loose
for once surrendered to herself.
cats tell you they love you this way.
i counted the bloom of white tear drops,
and, couldn’t you have followed
the line i traced for you?
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
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.
why have you pulled
against my tender wrists
i spent all day
just to pull the
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.
cold winds blow and between
buildings i can feel the shock
friendship falling to time. did
time make agreements with
or is everything that ends
in bone spurs done with
when the sun rose slow
and ached as it pulled
high enough, my friend
laughed again and wond-
i keep forgetting everything.
how i forget the green
how i forget the summer
dust. see it now whistling
in the cobble
stones. i can’t keep my
mind on straight, i tried
you can tell the skill-
ful life by the flowers
it will bloom,
the Buddha whispered
again and again and ag-
to count the times
your sorry mind
has tallied the times
in chalk and lye?
so what can i make of
the smoke around my
the browned out vines
that tap tap tap on my
this year i will be disappointed less
finding myself staring at blank ceilings less
wondering why i’m here less
wishing i could just put it together less
and just letting it all happen anyways
for my sin grows in the cracks of driveways
drought and cement and pesticide be damned
so sat john on the timber
an invitation had been lost
to colliding waves, set
along by the great green
listen to my dreams,
one could be the sun,
drawn by the shadow.
echoing audio into
standing rippling waves
who sing the shadow inside
standing neat under the autumned wine sky
and held under stiff wool as the only option
of nothing else to do
rain could fall in drops or in sheets
and still there would
be nothing else to do
before this shore was torn
from the sun and the moon,
before my hands
could recognize yours,
here is where the thread of the day
blends with the stitching of the night,
where the earth covers herself
with oceans of grass and tides of echos.
like the way the snow recognizes
the early winter wind,
like the way the water
recognizes all things in turn:
hold my hand
we were here
when the world first was born.