Half away ...

Love you, baby.

With my hands in the air,

I love you.

With my eyes dark bruised

And my back

Tight over shoulders and

Down my spine:

Love you baby,

All the time.

Love you, baby.

When you cry awake nights,

I love you.

When you flood hot water

(Squinting springs

Running core-deep, where

No words play):

Love you baby,

Anyway.

Love you, baby.

As our minds are breaking,

I love you.

As we don't believe

That this chaffed,

Unsustainable

Strain goes right:

Love you baby,

Every night.

Cold, Pleasant, short ...

Forgot to tell you

   That I was doing something else

         when you were lonely.

If I had thought of you,

    I might have come calling

            but I was the only

      One in my house,

           Where the rooms are quiet

                     and sometimes calm,

         Where eating goes

               Quickly, and choosing games

                           is simple. I've fallen

            For the easiness

                   Of this lack-of-you-with-me

                                            in this life before.

               I hope that you may,

                                Out in that day, some day, come

Break down this door.

Forefathers ...

 

Everyone you love

           Is worse than you think they are.

                      Weaker than you think they are.

Everyone you love

           Hides doubts: sweatboxing

                      That make them hate innocents

                      And songs without consequence

           For years – hateful years

                                 When each one you loved

Threw their sharpest bones in play,

Tucked their ticklish palms away

           in a musty glove

                      Or an underarm

                      For a cold they dreamed or a

           Cut they imagined on a

Sensitive, a warm

Appendage that was

                      Being saved for your soft cheek –

           To protect you, small and weak.

So you love them because ...

When ...

            When the dead rise

    There has usually

been a flood.

When the heavens quake

  There was often

 a flash before.

 When a star falls

It was usually

not a star

     But a piece of ice –

          burning in a distant,

        silent roar.

     When locusts swarm

        in a shell-clacking

      wave of wings

It is usually because

they need food,

as locusts do.

Just as these horsemen,

           Riding their pike-

                  man's nature,

        Scream up fire and brim-

               stone when smoke

                           forestalls the blue.

                      There is nothing too strange

                                         about a woman

                                                 clothed in sun

                                        (second woe) Or – who once

                                                      seemed an angel – then

                                                                   reaping the earth

                                                               (third woe) or these sores,

                                                   or these blooded seas

                                    or scorched ground

(seven bowls): We are all

fated there by our

raging birth.

Too, there is nothing strange

            about a river

                       and a tree

                   That come forth to heal –

                or at least clean

               the scarring

                Far enough for the young

                          to believe that curse

                                       is ending,

                                      Enough – sometimes – for

                                                the old, too, to feel their

                                                                        dead hopes jarring.

Procrastination & omphaloskepsis ...

Killing time.

More like imprisoning:

letting it do anything but

what it's meant to do.

It wants to be spent

in flings ; contra

I'm here

burning through

from tired

to not

to

so:

idling

with the

park in g - break

on, standing on what

wants to run, settling

what wants to shake,

gelling bound what

wants to break

o f  f   ties

between

this now

(being

born)

and this

past (before

it dies ) . The

empty, head-

less old cord

always

dies;

hangs

on, but

al-

ways

it-

ches ,

rips

&

d

i

e

s

.

Going down ...

Tomorrow at noon –

Some say –

They go down.

Never seen two puppies

Fade to black.
Wish I could

Put my hands on their backs,

So that their felted skins would know

Someone holds that heat

When their last

light goes.

Tomorrow

at noon,

(when there are

no shadows,)

there will –

     just for

      an instant –

be two

little sighs,

   then one

  free

 kennel

  & a

   little less

     space

on the shelves

in the ice room.

       Rest in peace, my

                bright young brothers.

Dropped in delivery ...

Love is this broken edge –

that everyone feels is a flaw.

        In one sense, it is:

    a spot you can't polish,

    that will never be perfect.

        In one sense it is.

        Buyers hate the broken edge –

    but every craftsman knows:

            that is where

                the paint holds,

            that is where

                the glue soaks in.

                And that is where you see –

                on an old chair, a bed frame

                            “This is pine” or

                            “This is fiberboard”

                        or “This is maple

                                with poplar underneath.”

                            “This will hold” or “This will break”

                        or “This is worth cleaning off the pigeon

                                shit and green dust; this is worth some

                                sanding and varnish; this is

                                a table to set your

                                children around.”

    Love is this broken edge

    that you will always run your finger

            over because it is not

    so smooth. That is how

    you find your

    chair in the dark.

:) ...

                                                                      “No” comes like a push.

                                                    The kindest ones won't push you back,

                                                                          If you've been sweet.

                                                         They'll try to save your face;

                                     They let you fall down into space –

                                   Like “maybe next week?”

                             Or “Sorry, I have plans,”

                 Or “Tonight's a laundry night,”

                   Or “I may be getting a flu –

                  I'll let you know.” They step

                         Away every time you step

                           In, until you turn – and go.

                                     & if you don't like falling,

                                         You'll have to hand her

                              Something to place in your ear –

                                      shaped like a non-push

                                         but pushing-clear:

                     Like “Just so you know,

               I'm softer past this rind.

 But if you'd rather keep your

Nails clean, I understand:

Send me a smile, and I'll

Use this door. Glad to have

Met you.” Beyond her , there's more

To make your own smile rise,

To make you feel rooted

In your heart again...

She'll :)smile:) soon. ;)wink;) back apace:

She's sweet – she won't enjoy hitting your face.

The gift ...

He lied to his son;

he said, “You will not die,

nor the waves in the sea,

nor the light in the sky.

      You will not die.

    And you will not forget

         the falsehood of things

           that have not happened yet.”

        And then he promptly forgot

     what bully – what fight –

       made his son afraid of flat lungs,

         still water, night;

                 what made him clutch that story

                 like sleep would a warm Spring shade –

              stretched out, absorbing space.

             Winged with trust, he played

         While from a bench – cutting

  cold breeze in the leaf bellies' glow –

His father chased splinters,

ducked sneezes, watched toes

 while his old lie rawled in him –

    an itch in his chest

       (the lostest make forms

    of the dark they know best).

           And one day – 9 thousand days

                 of dark ducking Spring –

                      his heart choked: a little

                                quiet clot through a ring.

                                      (Was that sky always green?)

                                                            “I'm ashamed son; I'm dying.”

                                                       But the young man – still true –

                                                                     replied, “No, dad. You're lying.”

Up at 3 ...

I –

I want –

want you to –

want

to just come –

come and hold this hand

for this –

for this cold time between

tired & asleep

that grows –

that grows

longer apart and deeper

awake than I can beat.

And I bet you

could –

you could

cut into

that

time

be-

fore

the

l

u

n

g

t

i

d

e

.