in the little
of the morning

red flag raised
and sounding

the air
cool moving

through
the trees

unsettles
loose leaves

the horizon
slides closer

stitched black
with lightening

bruised blue
with pummels

of thunder
first drops

blink dark
the dry ground

haloing
in the sand

before the world
shrieks

and sighs

listen           to the pebbles
                     and bells
                     of rain
                     against the window
watch          them pelt
                     into puddles melt
                     into the mouths
                     of flowers
listen           to what
                     is whispered
                     in between the falling
listen           to the earth sigh

in the corn
                   er of

an autumn field
i found

the body
of a fox

(it was the kind of storm all weathermen wait for)
)repetitious ripples of dappleddoppler(
(within an hour all was scoured whitesmooth and silent)

spring will
un

     lock
the land

open
the body

after you
the birds kept
to their mysterious notes
people moved
along the canals
one moment
the sky spat rain
the very next
it was unbearably blue
fields of impossible flowers
scented the air
the tides
true to their schedules
swept in and out
the moon hung
from its thin black thread
i wander our rooms
still calling your name

i did not know the word for it
so i called out to the man

who was approaching with his dog
sumimasen abunai onigaishimasu

it was

green
be
yond
green
grace
ful
be
yond
grace
ful
per
fect
be
­yond
per
fect

i felt no fear
as the snake moved toward me

beside me
i walked with it

and saw it to the hole in the gutter
it climbed down calmly and went on its way

i still look for it
but have not seen it since

i fear something in this world
found it

and did not understand
such beauty

the moon slurs
her words

plume like smoke
and feather fade

trace stitches
of stars unravel

black carvings
of birds

crease the netting
of trees

sunday morning children light
across the churchyard lawn

their grass stained laughter
lifts like leaves

so suddenly thundered
ripped from sleep

tipped tossed tumbled
out into the under

of such endless grief
and rubble

now
we pace and pray

now
we scratch and claw at wires and crumbs

now
we shriek with absolute loss

yet all the while
wishing and waiting and wanting

to rise
to rise
to rise

late to the day’s last light
seeding well beyond

these speeding windows
colors scrape unrestrained

a display
matching exactly

the leaves that still linger
with a tight fist

december clings
to such untouched things

all that is grey
will eventually give way

and deliver snow
but this we already know

when to hold on
and when to let go

many are
the morning ghosts

who see
what we cannot see

who architect
such a broad sweep

of things
the sky

perfectly pieced
with the sea

the waves piling
onto the shore

how the trees
and the rocks

tendril together
to weave their way

up up up
into the sky

it is not
some great boulder
sysipheanly shouldered up the mountainside
of some mystery

it is not
some annoying stone
in the soul
of your shoe

it is not
a grit of sand
bothersome
to the eye

it is
a single thread
silkstrong
and forever tethered
to the allmemory

it is
its own timekeeper
that freely freights across great boundaries

it is
sourceless
without grudge or grandeur

and the mouths         of flowers sing
and the bodies           of the oceans dance
and the light              of the sun
and the light              of the moon
                                     promise
and promise

minimalism.
mnmlsm.
mmm.
mm.
m.
.

match strikes spark

                                                                                                               a body

skin catch kindling

                                                                                                           in flames

all smolder smoke

                                                                                                           feels like

and blister burn

                                                                                                               a body

that crackles charred

                                                                                                           in flames

black and black

it has been grey for days
the crack

and scatter
of a concrete sky

the brittle air
the rubble

and rub
that dulls everything

beautiful bird
beware of things

that clip
and cut your wings

i do not believe
in ghosts

but i am cordial to them nonetheless

i do not believe
in god

but from time to time i wonder how she is doing

i do not believe
in heaven

but i am curious as to what might be on the other side of this door

i do not believe
in hell

but just in case i mind my manners

i do not believe
in the beatles

well actually i do and they are definitely better than the rolling stones

in the early hours
when you

set
upon a quiet house

now the morning
cracked

and screaming
now the weight

of so many words
now the smudge

the sun makes
and when at last

we catch cathedral
let us release you

to a bolt
of blue sky

it has been a year
since i last walked the trail

so much of it now is overgrown
with summer vines briars wild grass and the lack of foot traffic

i was familiar enough with the way
and could follow along with the low river

i recognized the elbow of it
where the shadow of the heron flew

i remembered where the deer tended to settle in the blue shade
where the rabbits scurried into the brambles

much has changed in a year
or so the keepers of such measurements might say

it is only the stones who laugh at such peculiarities
it is only the blue of the sky who shakes her head and thinks

why are you still so in love
with the sound of your own voice?

when october
unstitched

her skins
scattering the remains

we touched
the yellow cloth

marveling
at the heat

of it all

later stepping
across the blue stones

of the sky
we breathed

in birdsong
and wood smoke

                                                                                     and remembering

it has been one revolution
around the sun
since you became the sun

it has been four sweeps
of the seasons
since you became the seasons

it has been twelve months
of moons
since you became the moon

it has been without measure
since you became

we quick kicked thick
eddies of leaves

from skeleton trees
crows crack and scatter

frost kissed jack o lanterns
collapse

a swan wide winged
and wild

sunday church bells tell
the geese to arrow south

last night in bright papery bits
stars tossed and tangled

a moon collected upon the canal
i have no wants in this world

only this

wind held
the hawk

well above
the burn

and stubble
of october fields

in slow circles
of un

         broken blue
a single note

turning
and re

           turning
how will you

approach silence?
with open arms

a feather of fear?
is there

any room left
in your crowded life

for stillness?
how do you

measure mystery?

this little wrist
of sand

marks many
a morning's search

wave worn
and shore washed

like shells
stones or broken

bits of coral
tossed about

in tidal bows

once
i woke
    
certain that there was no god

once
i watched

a mountain lion bound the trail before me

once
i walked

with venus and jupiter clear in the pre-dawn sky

once
i was

where does
such wild come from?

why does
the full white of the moon excite us so?

when you died
did you collect all the perfect petals?

many
are the morning ghosts

who see
what we cannot

who architect
in the broad sweeps

of things
the sky

perfectly pieced
with the sea

the waves
piling up

on the strand
how the trees

and the earth
tendril together

to weave their way
up up up

on the cover
of the new york time magazine

there is a man
standing

in the middle
of a crowded new york city bus

he is wearing
a perfect grey pinstripe suit

and a gorilla mask
one hand

holds the new york times
the other

holds a hand strap
my grandmother

upon seeing the photograph
for the first time

knows those hands
to be the hands

of her son

i remember me



                                                                stars cold
                                           in their constellations

                                                                dull colors
                                           windkicked into corners

                                                                one shadow walking
                                          with each hand empty




                                                                                                without you

the man
silver-haired

and tan
was wearing

a crisp blue
oxford shirt

a kelly green
silk tie

pressed khaki pants
and perfect

leather loafers
he tilted

his head back
and calmly lowered

the headless body
of the raw fish

into his mouth
fresh herring

bellowed the fishmonger
with obvious glee

my grandfather
went inside

to get more bullets
in a voice

not meant
for me to hear

he said
to my grandmother

he doesn’t have the eye
his brother has

with shaking hands
with my final bullet

i put a hole
clean through the head

of lincoln

push
into the pelagic refractions

of cerulean
and celadon

stand
on an unknown shore

that washes the elemental
into the celestial

inner    space

             space

outer    space

the rain
with its Round words

said nothing
quiEt were the grey sheets

of the sky
the new green

of trees
the many bells

of this town
kept sIlent

even the wind
wholly wild

held its toNgue
but still we knew

(deathhyouareadarkandfunnydoor)

steep the stone
the gentle folding

of blood
and bone

remain here
and help her home

                                                                                     she will have her way

miles out at sea
far too distant

for the drums
to be heard

ribbons of light
split beneath the ribs

of a thunderhead
within the hour

the storm had tiptoed
off the horizon

and all those
around me

distracted
by more mundane things

were none
the wiser


                                      but
                                   let me
                              ask you this


when was the last time
beauty

stopped you
in your tracks?
laughed
at your silly deeds
and demands?

when was the last time
beauty

took you
in her gentle hands
and shook you
all to pieces?

this new morning light is not
some mask or bright new coat to slip on

it is not
a sign or signal of what once was or will soon be

these waves are not
the fingers or fists of some dark leviathan roaring forth to claim my body

they are not
glassy cylinders splintering into millions of pieces on the shore

last night’s full moon was not
a pale coin or some other currency of love or mystery

these things just are
as we are

beautifully present one moment
and gone the next

you either understand that
or you don’t

she found it
heavy

and wet
and struggling

to stand
in the shallows

of the creek
a fawn

not a week
or two old

the woman called
to me

from the creek
and passed

the fawn up
to me

it collapsed
on the grass

of the trail
trembling

and exhausted
it bawled

for its mother
i sat down

beside it
and dried

and warmed
its small body

of sticks
after a while

it stood
and made its way

carefully clumsily
into a thicket

of briars
and it was there

that i left it

who will find us in those first moments of life?
who will hold us in our final hour?

who will light the candle?
who will blow it out?

this little wrist
of sand

marks many
a morning’s search

wave worn
and shore washed

like shells
stones

or broken bits
of coral

tossed about
in tidal bows

once i woke                 certain there was no god
once i watched           a mountain lion bound the trail before me
once i walked             with venus and jupiter in the pre-dawn sky
once i was

where does such wild come from?
why does the full of the moon excite us so?
when you died, did you collect all the perfect petals?

we stirred
and startled the bird

standing there in the reeds
and the still of the eddy

legs
a stealth of sticks

head
a gaveled spike

and in that briefest moment
the heron

str   etc   hed   imp   oss   ibl   e wi   ngs

feathered gravel grey and unfolding
it grabbed hold of a rope of air

its long neck collapsing perfectly into its body
a fluency of grace and speed that soon saw it well above the water

and shadowing down the sand bars and creek beds

there can be no life without          fear
there can be no life without          love

don’t forget
to unsettle

the night sky
with your stars

in the little
of the morning

red flags
are already raised

the sounding wind moves
through the trees

unsettling
loose leaves

the horizon slides darker
stitched black

with lightning
bruised blue

with pummels
of thunder

first drops blink
on the dry ground

haloing
in the sand

all this
just before

the world
shrieks

and sighs

full moon abandons
over fields of snow

silent trees measure
what we already know

we wait in wonder
a lifetime ago

there is no beauty
in their flight

a frantic choreography
as if taking to the air

for the very first time
twitching from one tree

to the next
but their color

such a giving green
and that breath of red

patched just beneath
each wing

says much
of their humor

their jocularity

will you have a look at us?
how the hell did we even get here?
and, really, who knew this would such fun?

today
the children asked
about the hollow bones
of birds
how long
it takes lava
to cool
through the din
and chaos
we brave
the rain
howl
at the moon
we crawl
through the mud
clutching
at mad relics
searching for clues
all this
to retravel roads
all this
to begin again

this new morning light
is not some mask
or a bright new coat to slip on
it is not a sign
or signal
of what was once
or will soon be

these waves are not
the fingers
of some dark leviathan
roaring forth
for my body
or soul
they are not
glassy cylinders
shattering into millions
of pieces on the shore

last night’s moon
was neither a pale coin
nor some other currency
of love
or mystery

these things just are
as we are
beautifully present one moment
and gone the next
you either understand that
or you do not

hovering
between two languages

light’s decay
must choose

its words
carefully

growling
in the distance

dark plumes
ruffle

the color
of the sea

out       side         in         in         side        out

when fear shakes
the breath from our lungs

when poison measures
too much

in the blood
how do we

return to center?
how do we

renew beauty?

the rains
have returned

as have the parrots
that riot down

the evening streets
this morning

a hummingbird
ash grey

and the size
of a child’s thumb

floating between
the branches

of a flowerless tree
slowly

things have found
their way back

into focus
into some semblance

of routine
and order

but small cracks
and fissures remain

open invitations
for grief

to come
galloping back

(did you really think you would be rid of me so easily?)

(that this would last only a moment?)

(who do you think has been filling your dreams with shadows?)

shoeless
he sat on the sidewalk

and leaned into the shade
of a graffitied wall

he began drinking
from his brown bagged bottled

and when he finished
it was with great effort

that he stood
carefulish not to make contact with cars

or oncoming pedestrians  
he spilled himself

into the street
into the tilting sunlight

of harlem

grey the low rumbling of early morning thunder
the heavy scent of rain and magnolia
however the calling of the crows declare that no storm will arrive

a doe stood silently
we watched each other with mutual curiosity
later i would come across another
holding out my hand she approached a few tentative steps
but stopped and quickly turned away

blueredgrey
bluejaycardinalheron

moss covered and motionless a turtle sat sunning on a log
a black snake freshly dead on the side of the road
its brilliant body already blunting in the afternoon sun

the gloaming shadows reached across
in ripples swallows and swifts scooped the surface of the pond
readying themselves for night the geese made their way to the center of the pond

the spin of a planet
the nudge of a glacier

the push of a wing
the blink of an eye

light whispers hello
goodbye

when we return                of the world        of ourselves
to the routines                   to the silence

let us set                             let us sit
the stones                           in the gloaming
to a bright new room       and watch the light
and conceive                     shake with
of its colors                        beautybeautybeauty

what is your hand
in the mystery
of things?

what is it
that you choose
to gather?

with eyes
to the horizon
there can be no measure