From Spring 2010

10/29/10

Surely, this is not silence
to which we have
fallen, but knowing;
for we cannot say
what grows a bond, nor why a year
has led me to yearn
to complete that sentence,
yet that which calls us
to act upon words
must not be enacted. In this,
speaking will lead us
astray.



10/30/10

You have not said
my name--

there is a tremor,
a certain rush
to speak, to say
though you will not say it;
drowned of air
you must have silence
to breathe.

for you don't love
me (not too much)
and yet you would
take me (could you)

I still tremble--
I swear--
not speak a word.

ON LOVE X

Is this all we are--love

contagious, always

with fevers passing

in troubled sleep

stretching from beach to beach,

no waves

or land to reach

____

I would rather be a pillar, a symbol of my own strength

than combined tapestry, love for someone else's art

I am surrogate love, bred with a champion runner's heart

and a bloodline's tracks

__________________

love, who were you

to barge down doors

to appease

to please me

to refuse flowers, how can you

turn me away, your attention spans

between video games, movies, or work

you'd rather say--love takes time, and I need

time, to know myself

but you are as shallow as your affinities,
you have nothing

to share--no way to explain

who you are--you are

that which can fill in small cracks

and crevices, like Elmer's glue

but really, you are as porous as

a broken jar, holding dirt

swept from the garage, stored

on a shelf, pretty, waiting

long, for something new.

__________________________

it lives purely in a woman's heart, this companion

who dies of a porous heart

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.