Archive | December 2013

Adaptation

Here,
there is some quality
of light
that distinguishes us,
we in our place
here.

Please,
don’t go.
I am still filled,
and have something
to say.

Looking for you,
I am afraid
to look at you —
and know you know
all the ways
I have hidden.

High on the branch,
you see everything
under snow.
And I would have you sit
a moment longer,
poised upon the tension
between hunter and hunted.

This cold rock in my throat
tastes of everything
we’ve yet to say.
And my powers are wasted
on this ring.
Only the birds
to redeem us.
Even the kindest intentions
are blind to affliction —
the promise of pain to come.

Sunshadow casts the judgment,
sets the task:
to build two walls
of reason —
to leave,
to stay —
and suspend myself
in the balance
like a hawk riding a thermal,
enduring all the repercussions
of a busy-dreaming mind.

But these are my ways.
And these are my woods.
And though I am formed
for adaptation,
I still can’t change
at will.

Clawed

Again.
And always.

Hanging by a thread…
clawing up
from the edge
of the abyss.

Full moon rise
hints at warm
gets high
and crumbles like packed snow.

Upstairs there is frost
blooming in flowers
that catch its light
splintered and frozen.

And the barren shadows
lengthen,
and we must wait,
or trick ourselves
back into something like hope.

And you are
a kind man —

a nudge
toward solid ground.

But the clever,
always pushing
against the barriers,
finds his way through —
the thief
twists the wires.

So bereft
of all but instinct,
we feed them,
we shelter and clothe them,
we sing them to sleep.
And until the time turns,
this will have to do.

from the dark

The bluebirds
warm themselves
atop the nesting boxes.
And despite shortening days,
there’s time to linger.

The boy who said
I did what I didn’t
passed ahead —
just as all secrets
someday cease.

And nothing floats
on frozen water —
it’s hard to tell
which is what:
ice or sky.

Like everything living,
we’re still marking time,
constantly stumbling
on what to live up to.

And I knew you were broken-hearted.
But who doesn’t come
to love their scars?

Our confidences are unequal.
He is wide with words,
while I struggle
with the segments of secret
that are mine to convey.

Only the dead grass
in the meadow
has had it from me —
I buried those letters
by the break
before the burn.
Lucky,
those seeds
that have yet to fly.

On my knees,
a hipbone altar
holds everything for Orpheus
and his most perfect music,
as it flies in the face
of the Furies.

These are the virtues
we hold to:
hunger,
truth,
and the openness
behind a closed door.

Still,
we wait for
what we wait for:
The time will come for telling.