—Angle on it:

Honey scorched our lips full fraught with lines and
arguments of love I was not afraid
to tell you of: a lucent hazard I
cannot avoid: unsuspected large blank
spaces. Words go there. And there
the link between ecstasy and ethos shines
with sunshine life. Overnight, many fires
charged the air out into the mild December
afternoon, in this time, this place,
and hasn’t changed much since. Now burn, new born
to the world, choose to direct the speeches
outwards instead of inwards. Even the Sun
arising in the east, watching the sun
come up in the downtown park, more golden
than the world of lights, slowly, adjusting
the flowers one by one in the grandeur of
dirt, addressing distorted features/broken
voice. The day itself is good. What else
is there to do? —Follow the shade back and forth.
There are numerous blossoms as billowed
ash seeds the wind. How are we all that’s left
in the sun,
into leaf,
into regions of air?
From the first inspiration, breathing with
the new breath: the wild system given
and taking back. The echoing silence
is not silent.

The Ocean Warming

What’s to become of me
along the shores of the Wine Sea?
This beach seems to be more popular
when she curves her neck
as some element of spirit (“–Certain
images and episodes in the world
of human affairs.”) I want to examine
emergence in someone’s eyes,
neither the least nor the most
hostile to use / present and fleeting
sounds, neither soothing nor threatening.
We bid them leave, let go. We empty
our pockets into a communal pile of sand
to collect rings, bracelets and other stuff.
I just do this. We’re sitting at a bar
and I’m listening to an old accident and error
of speed and emotion. Five years passed
through histories of things.

            light slumps about today
             from the backyard to supper,
             short and long.
             fallen from the laundry line
             in mud, a breeze of lilac
             curved and almost silent.
             Soon it will be gone,
             and then?
             A Spring pocketful
             of posies, pink
             bicycle with training wheels
           &#160 enough to offer consolation
             for the skinned knee or
             lost tooth,

madness, her anorexia, her agoraphobia, and her paralysis in the texts;
something in-between.

I felt better because she showed me
these things, more among moss and grasses
drawing moisture up everywhere,
made of words, but not a use of them.
This is not just an intensification
and there is still much to learn.
I am certain that you will now be asking
what comes off the sea?
It recalls nothing– mirage.

Small Prayer

All secrets, all smiles
invisible in my house.
There is a bird in the woods whose song stops you
in a field full of tulips.
Whatever you say
if you wake up sometime—on the steps of the
roads that are not roads, as
night swells seaweed—
amend, thank-you, amen.