How much depends
on the timing of a tear
in the fabric of wing?
How much on the drip
of wax?
How much on the hunger
of an eye, craving reunion
with the nearest star.
Suns
And lovers
Blog
Measure
What drifts
The raft’s rough edges where deep clings.
Raft sighing back, yes, oblivions, I see you,
kaleidoscopic leagues, teeming
with hidden lives.
You want ours, too? Is this an invitation
or a warning––or play? The way our youngest
are known to slap with open hands
your surface
just to feel
you resist.
Experiment
With current
Here is one, in forest, blooming. One arm to a neighboring planet, the other to the underfoot. Center as conduit. Burn into body. Water brings earth’s snake rounding air, biting tail, fire becoming again the form, the form coming again, from ash.
Mist Opportunities
And related cravings
We knew its texture even as it was always escaping us. Like how you can hold the child but not the whole life. Or bear daily witness to the setting sun and be daily reminded how impossible it is to see. The thing so often had to do with finding the question that went with the answer the dream was giving. Naturally, many tried to turn this mystery into a theoretical challenge. Which was something different than entering its all.
Earshot
Within them in us.
It was a ceremony. It was hearing. We were pilgrims and wanted to be heard. As now, in hope of returning––somewhere. It seemed we shared this. A common dream? Maybe. Of a time when we were. Uncertain, we did not speak, but listened, the echo of our assembly in our flesh, resounding.
Cat Talk
Purr, an example
Like yes but don’t get too close. Yet. Yes, but don’t touch me. Until now. Yes, you but I don’t entirely trust anyone. Yes, but I need and need. Yes, but time. But here. But possibly unsafe. I go again. I will go. This window, though. The long slant of light. I fold myself into it. To be without holding my breath for what’s next. This breath, I let it go.
The Beyonds
From here
What to make
of what remains
after the burn?
Against the Sirens
The telling
Tell me about it, we say, nodding at the most recent lament before us––in the chair, at the table, with the tired voice; in passing in the wild rush. Tell me, we repeat, like shaking a clean sheet to fold it before stacking with the others, who whisper in chorus at this gesture and its countless kin, constantly throughout each day, a plea for a home not quite remembered or fully left. Tell me about it. Tell me about that place I can always remember, ever almost. Whisper to me of this collective hush again, what I need to hear against the sirens.
What, Counting
in this space before what goes
In this time among these machines that want nothing, that take and absorb the images and sounds and other residues of our lives, their harvest, I want. But am so often dulled among their droning that I may not name it.
What, then? Has that been also reaped? I am counting before it goes, wanting to say. Something but the taint of those scythes is in the words, too.
Let us count before we go, some other way. The machine will not know to measure waiting by the heartbeat, ear pressed to beloved chest, the rasp of final breaths or by the caw-caw-caw across the sky outside this window in the still of midafternoon, above and beyond the droning, beeping whirr of them, indifferent to the stretched stillness, pulled taut until the next caws back.
Range of Sound
Set alight
The moment in flux––all danger, possibility. Turbulence of arrival within the dream where each other is the heart of each I, drumming.