Archive by Author | Emily


More the fool,
I walk layers of proximity,
and the meaning one makes of it.
Tracing circles ’round truths we avoid
(it is so late, love) –
I could raise my hands just so.
How I want to reach you.

How to control the racing
when you are so close,
I can feel the electric
that sings the space between?
We’ve already wandered
from the map.

I wait for you to run again.
I watch and wait for you to run.
But you don’t.
fearing the transparent wild,
I take it upon myself.


We make a feast
of the most bitter truths,
and sacrifice the voice
to beautiful lies.

And only the sun,
bright but weak
in its splintered wintry arc,
can discern and balance the scales.

Naked skin pebbles
in the frozen wind –
we stand on the low rise,
surrounded by unbent prairie grass.

And here there is no escaping
that dissonant voice
that follows
and has always followed.

We are always out before it,
but know deep,
where the truth churns the lie,
some day it must overtake us.


Was this one last warmth
before snow covered your bones?
Or have you found shelter
in simple?

Either way,
we howl with wind that plays the trees.
They stand in black and white lines
we learn to see between.
And we howl again
because we are not gone yet.

Like water,
you seek the path of least resistance,
downward and downward,
forgetful of freezing
that slows progress to glacial.

But you know where to find us.
We still make this habit
of endurance.
And the embers glow fitful,
drawing us in.

And there never are answers –
just a turning into wind,
a walking into snow,
and movement,
whether glacial or sudden.

The Clock Dream

Oh, delicious distracted –
we dream its circular progress,
but it is always now and now
days of sustenance –
a season’s worth of honey –
we are so drawn along.

A wind to bring on
gray southern rain,
with air soft but metallic
with winter’s whispers
along the horizon’s curve.
Its hands have stopped,
and now is all time
and no time come.
Pebbles and windows,
the fire in the coals.
So long you learn
not to believe.

Drawing everything in,
we are the constant regeneration
of a minute architecture
we’ll never comprehend
it is so far.
And the rain breathes,
and I breathe it in,
your breath –
just as the clock stops.


Our blood thickens and slows
as color is taken up and away
by November’s wind.
we learn endurance,
with tears that freeze
in silver lines
on skin that can’t hold heat.
But we still turn in
to face it.

A dissipating fog of breath –
who knows where it is?
Who knows where it goes?
Let it,
and mark its slow progress
on the map.
Somewhere on this skin,
you also find home.
And I want to spill,
but slowly and unfrozen.
There is no safety
in this silence.


You’re the one I keep –
for the imperfection
of your language,
for measuring eyes
and dancing hands,
for all
of what might never be.

Sometimes carry you in my pocket
and approach the water’s edge,
running thumb and forefinger
across the contours
we’ve created.

Watch the mirror:
gray sky,
gray water,
gray stone.

Think on possibility –
the potential of a perfect arc,
mind’s eye counting
the outward ripples
as you skip across the surface.

But despite the delight of means,
the murky end is too much.
So I keep you close –
a meditation on could-have-been,
a stone in my pocket.


Do not know
if I was wrong
or am.
You’re such an engaging purpose,
but I forget how
to take up the cause.

Before I skip it away,
turn this stone in my hand –
its rough and smooth
sides and edges,
hours into years –
and despite the progress of erosion,
we end the same –
afraid to touch
or be touched.


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