Thursday, October 13, 2011


what is light? all
that we see or do, that is spread
on fingers splayed; a certain weight-
less flow, separate from shade,

where two rays fall freely; there is sweetness
in the way you look at me
now, as though a switch
has flipped up, on, and a room illumined.

it can be in pieces, divided
to the touch; your face
when mouthing the separate vowels of a name;
or when engrossed, playing
as children do,

there is a diffused glow, light made ambient
by you; a lack of feet, a hint of clouds
passing overhead in a passing shade, like a laugh-
ing mouth, sliding lips, flushed, you are light
as a touch, a word, a kiss.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

The heart is no titan

I am nothing known nor meant, no titan,
no shepherd immune to the heart's deceit,
where a warlord's keep still towers, and my
feet tread back and forth at the gates, asleep

with no means of retreat. My defense has
flown apart, exposed as mere bone-molded
arrows and spears, not rock, not steel; no fire
to forge such a blade as your heart has pressed

to me. And what for the whisper, the hope
of what this land could be? There was a wind
come from far overseas, and I sailed out
with a quest, a prayer for something fierce

and wondrous, but your walls are yet unbreeched,
and your fortress no sweet shelter for me.

I cannot love. This heart is a forest

and I don't need flowers

or insensitivity, like a cold rock thrown in an ice blue sleep. I don't need words
of praise or peace

or hands to build a house amidst my leaves; i am a blowing thing
of rampant insecurities and dashing,
thriving beasts; I don't need lips
to touch sweetly, nor a trail blazed, nor fellow tree to spend dark evenings

amidst the howling, hushing brush; I ache already
in the moist morning
where your feet have trampled
such delicacies.


Maybe I am dreaming of what love is supposed to be.

You cannot fill me, as no one can

for a creature's heart is empty. And I

am not that vase or glass, not fine

enough to fill myself with sand;

What is as hollow

as your cupped hands?

Love is small, and five fingers can hold nothing.


a surge of speech, verging on old news, i am seldom heard
by you; i can't interpret myself

like a kite, a solitary flier
wrapped up in a lamppost--
i'm not made to flutter.

it's like speaking to a beech tree, a deaf love
with verbal inconsistencies and sign-language adultery;
if my words were leaves, they would weep
down around you in a flurry
and i would never know if they struck
water, or just crumpled to the ground--

and asking words from you is like asking
salt from the sea, you can only give
me a silent tide but no sieve; no method
of drawing salt from sand from an ocean deep;
your rocks are words
and i want your rocks, boy, your rocking
to and fro
but your waves refuse to speak.


and you talk like you want to tie the knot
but there are too many knots tied
and i am not
a knife, love doesn't cut it;

and what is love without words
of love -- just trembling
sighs and mouth eating lips with lies.