It is a measure of light
we take from the night –
needles to pierce the sky
and let some through.
And we choose wrong
but hold close to it –
nothing else does the trick.
Turn the blood engines –
its essence is here
deep in deliberate motion,
bodies seeking equilibrium –
a suspension of sorts.
And outside is nothing,
unless you care to acknowledge
and engage it –
the dark earth where we sink roots
and find this loathing.
And it always comes back round
to the same thing –
a filtered vision,
a constant movement
toward escape.
And still the way out
is in.
Sit with it.
Watch a while.
That old oak knows
how to be what it is.


When time was with us,
there was this pulling to heel,
and oh,
how we would rise up
with the August heat.
And oh,
how we craved
its breaking to take us.

like every other golden day,
I dreamed you here,
senseless and
against my will –
a storm that builds to breaking,
then builds to break

And if time were with us,
we might ride it –
rising ’til the air grew thin,
then falling fearless
to let the flood overcome
and send us
where it wills,

fingers grasping
dancing fingers
to pull us under
and make us new,
to make us free
to break the surface,
climb and fall,
and climb and fall


let this be enough –
this deconstruction.

We are all to pieces,
bearing the confinement
of our form.

Something of earth.
Something of air.

Let it be finished,
this weight –
let it fall.

Somewhere there is an other –
where all yellow flowers
catch a light we can’t reach yet.

Let the wheel spin out
its thousand deaths.

These gifts –
ignorant acceptance
or transformation –
whittle us down to our simplest form:

the August sun
through paper-thin wings,
drying in its light.


When summer looked late,
its golden flag unfurled,
I found I’d lost my eyes;
I found I’d lost my words.

Close the door,
open the windows
and let it steal
across your sleeping form –
wait for waking to take.

And it is here,
somewhere –
that secret we keep.
But it won’t come easy.

We dream deprivation’s retreat.
And it will come,
so we place our bets –
even knowing how long
it takes to turn.


Slow feet, fast hands
make the single,
St. Valentine’s cowgirl boots.

The fever takes me and I
wait for coyote haunt
and owl time.

The great shift back to one.

I cannot unsay.

But we learn it –
what restraint has to teach.
Let gods or angels take it up.

We are low,
but we aim for consistency –
draw it inward –

and the elusive summer
still sings in the night.
In the night, it still sings.


The blessing moon –
you count them now,
one hand or two.
It’s grown its face,
but hides in storm –
and I know how it feels.
I know how it feels.
I know how it feels.

Spring’s End

I try to dig you from the bone –
a complicated extrication –
but the weakening is beyond me,
and I need these nerves
for walking away.

What does it mean
when my footsteps no longer frighten?
You turn me such a tangle –
a constant call
to enough and not.

everything sings,
and I find the subtle breath.
is a strange summer lesson.


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