When I yearn for a leaving,
things celestial trend with me.
Someone who knew
bade me to consider the sand
on the beaches of the world.
Each grain a placeholder
for a faraway sun,
and I am stunned with overwhelm.
Lifted from the everyday.
Marked to come out and play.
Category Archives: spiritual
Mutuals
~Fifty said to Fifty~
Time is growing short, growing cold. Know that i will be with you, all the way to the next time. Be on guard, lest I drift into the lock of sleep. Charge through the night, that you may play in broad day. Put away the fearsome fear, until another year.
Leaf of litmus
Once,
I peeled back a peekaboo page,
thinking to find what lay beneath-
some lines writ in a flowing hand
that only I would understand.
But that leaf,
so soft and supple,
had done its unkind blot,
and what was inked so deeply
had faded from my thought.
A litmus for lost love.
The church of research
May I do this with your arm,
you said.
Not ~Can I~,
but ~May I~.
And then, with your hands,
you pressed down hard
into the years,
prying up stones
that were cold and complacent.
The roots of moles and strawberries.
And “What?”, I thought.
What are you looking for?
This hurts, yes.
***
idleness
A diving moth
caught in venetian rays,
like a bedside meteor.
In soreness of spirit,
I chew on thoughts of old romancers,
closet dancers.
The thin cat thinks
All bony and moany,
on hollow stilts he walks,
stumbling to a slow pause.
With dimming lamps
he scans the dumbness of air,
then cries at the memory of the hunt.
The plates of his shoulders
stretch his sparse skin,
and pepper spots
remember lost whiskers.
The Following
Awoke,
did I,
to trap a dream
untrammeled in its art
But hurriedly it lost its gleam
Though I drew it part by part
How to capture?
How to keep
such singleness of soul?
Such loving rapture
born of sleep-
‘twas one of Heaven’s foal!
Sky pilot
Lay prone
in the hammock of home.
No drink, no smoke, no drug.
Let the blue loom of the sky
seep its dye, so sterile, so dope.
Great is its storied fresco.
Rest easy that it waits for you.
Dust bunnies
Taken-
the combings of years,
of minutes and seconds.
Sift and sieve,
this sultry eve.
What’s fallen,
plasmic,
into dream hands,
begs of wonder,
of worship,
and tastes
of regret and forgiveness.
Spirits
I’m seeing more somethings
in the sighing air
Distances to dramas,
beatific in their flash,
are shortened.
Though I once feared the fear,
lungs of sponge breathe it in,
baptizing its fire,
and I am well.
I am well.
Aremyfeetofftheground 