honestly, there were no words lost
between us, only blood,

nothing that could be given. And the way
we were pulled together, then

apart, left us with gaps
that became our connection.

________

stiffness, i am toward you
like a bone hand

The wind slams doors
in this house, makes meals
out of dust.

Pushes space around
with its fingers.

Drives through, opens windows,
riffles blinds and speaks
in a full tongue: wake up

you are new again, don't you see
your garden outside the window, grown lush
by steady hands. A tall flower
reaches high above
the window sill, threading sunlight.

Vines protrude through the glass.

Had a dream that I was losing numbers, losing sounds,
losing pieces of carpet and rooms collapsed.
Had a dream that sadness had passed
and there was nothing but clear water.

Had a thought that maybe today
was meant for me. Maybe
walking is the gift, as having the sight to see,
the words to breathe and the will to be.

And another wave has come to claim
the morning, come to take another day --
and what are days, but ways of
remembering.

Is music always going to bring
the memory of you, always
the memory, always

that time sitting at the piano, my fingers
over yours, playing scales
up and down, variations

like names speaking words
A and C, perfect thirds
we crawl upwards

and down, hitting rhythm and tone, gone
slow over cramping notes
that is how it goes, you said,
refrain

from making memories, mundanities
that can't stand in the face of reality, where
music arises purely from the soul
and in nature, no music, no song,
no

Luck

Call it luck, sure, if you want it to be
luck, like a round penny in your shoe;
can't walk far on it, but it gives you
something to count on; something to

think of, like when he said -- It seems more like a curse to me
but call it luck, sure, if you want it to be--

that's LUCK, my friend, like scraping your hand
and growing new skin; guess what? Everything mends
and you can curse the ground for slipping under you
or call it LUCK and count that penny in your shoe.

Kicking up leaves from the bottom of the pond
always makes for muddy water; unsettled
depths and worlds unseen floating across
the surface. We pulled up a boot, an old shoe
split at the sole, that perhaps
walked down this road
many years ago, but was since lost, and bearing
no place of its own, ended up floating
down to the bottom alone.