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.


Go and be what you will.

I held your ghost
like a shell to my ear,
but never had more
than an echo of ocean –
shallow and unreal.

And I do not know
what I would be,
but this battle does not serve.

I am tired of bleeding.
And I am tired of burning.
All to no end.

So go.
Keep yourself to yourself,
if you must.

And I will lay down
the shell,
the spear,
and submit
to this season of silence.


Just a rainy-day indulgence?
Today the roses are blown,
but it is the time
for always something growing –
we ride the swell of it,
filled to bursting.
Always something to replace
what’s gone.

She pushes him
to her feet,
and he plants kisses
inside her ankle.

You and I owe each other nothing.
But my shoulders
and hands get tired.

If only you could find it in you
to trust yourself enough
to reach –

If only I could find it in me
to step out from behind
these foolish convolutions –

Then all this lingering sweetness –
the air that follows rain
and pushes in upon us –
might mean something.

Earthly delicious

What did they know of this place
before its gate swung open?

A name?
Whispers of rumor? –
and yet,
they choose it.

Seed clouds uplifting
to the sun,
just so –
vision flames
and fades –
the insidious persistence,
the peril of the eye.

We never can escape it.

We must teach it
the daily incarnation.

Today, I walked in,
spider in my hair,
heat and dirt,
sweet and salty skin,
mud on my cheek,
ground into knuckles.

And he found a way to see that.


When you withhold it,
I want to push
past the soft edge
of these curves –
explore outside
the angle of your eye.

And I couldn’t tell you
what it is that hurts –
head, heart or hip –
only that the bending lines
bring me to this,
sand and dirt.
We dig in,
learning the lie
of old teeth and new.

I give it up
for nothing.
Let him take –
ease past the gate,
a garden full of shadow,
shifting with the progress of light –
lowering my eyes,
I let him.


And sudden from the overgrown,
a sense of frightened flight –
reclusive wing rises to it
then settles back
to withholding,
unaware how we wield words
and the winding of strings.

The mute swan sits her nest,
and a warbling
again gives you away.
We still have long eyes.
And we still know
where the risk is too steep.
We climb alone,
a union of effort.

Wind across water
waves cattails
as if to say,
So here you are.
We’d been wondering.
And it moves
more subtle too –

in graying eyes
and bones that settle themselves
like hidden birds
to wait,
to accept –
what purpose,
what pain and pleasure
it brings.


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