roof over your head


what am i to say to this,

sky wrapped woolly and wet over me,

the itch to pierce that tight skin and

to keep flying threaded in?

the shapes speak to us all day long;

we shun the silence of octagons.

what’s yours is mine: we share this space,

complicit in its undoing.

let it undo you.

let it give you firsts and lasts;

let it thrust itself upon



up all night


under this


of waiting;

blank space panting,

breaking open,


liquid line of wanting,


down the


it’s a beautiful view.

like a painting


tired of stepping


ready for marching,

pistons shaking—

it’s there

for the taking.

where you are the green


naked nest,

empty chest,


exposed by the

long stretch-slap of winter.


go out into it,



chalk it up to a blank chapter.


get out of the prison of your head;

let your legs do the talking.


end up on a new path

where you are the green, and


hunted, and in your blood,






2010: your utter limits


the thing we don’t tell

our children is that


life gets harder as we get older;


that, despite the new and amazing and

mind-blowing things we discover,


life will push you to your utter limits.


how did this design come to be?

that our offspring witness our demise, and then their own?


that their friends die around them;

that their hearts are shredded before they even leave home?


i’m not asking for answers.

so keep your books shut.


i’m asking the questions that have no answers,


the questions that need to be asked

even as they fall open to infinity.


the year my marriage broke apart for the last time,

a piece of me died.


the year my dad died,

a piece of me died.


incidentally, it was the same year.


i will never be the same –

nor do i want to be.


that would mean this life isn’t happening.

to me.


this is my life.


a decade earlier, the moment my daughter was born,

a piece of me burst open and expanded


into something more beautiful and terrifying

than i ever imagined possible.


now i walk around with a new fear –

of losing her, of seeing her hurt, of knowing that


someday she will lose me.


this is our life: our collective

fears, loves, hopes, tragedies, dreams.


this is our ride: as we hold on,

hold each other, hold life


in our hands.


a few more meters

i have this dream

in which i kill every thing in the house:

the plants, the pets, the shadows.


i remain alive because i am outside the house,


outside myself, dictating death

to the weak and softening. i have been here before,

waxed inside this block of malice, shaking.


if every action starts with a thought, a seed –

i am growing a fucking garden.


i talk to myself in the early morning hours,

walk myself through the rituals:

washing, brushing, brewing, feeding.


eating has become so tiresome. if i could

just take one tiny pill and be done with it.


they say toward the end of a long run you get a sort of second wind,

a rushing of air, energy, purpose into your lungs, body, mind.


i’ve been running for a long time now; i’m starting to disbelieve in

second anything. maybe it’s like getting lost: if you had just gone


a few more meters you would have seen the sign.

the heart of sky (or, the other valentine)

the hearth, the heat, the

sweep of sleet

across the face.


did you know you could

keep this pace?


love this



in time with the bondage

of the eye:


the true measure

of the body —-


and the deep

cry of the beyond.


spread it all out;

write it all down;


drag it across your life-joist;

then burn it.


but first,

drain the



the archive will



the red, the breath,

the breadth,


the heart of sky.