through a quilt quietly

dreams in a hammock

hammer lovingly,

 

back and forth,

 

saying, you will get back

all the memories you

 

had before the tragedies,

before you marched around

 

with armor and closed fists.

 

now you see through a

quilt quietly,

 

until enough sun opens the threads,

the bones, the wish.

 

push — everyone says.

 

but i think they mean pull,

which requires arms:

 

ready to pick up the pieces;

ready to receive.

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what if

what if we could jet

back in time

 

on the backs of these

jet-black birds,

 

which are really just

sharp memories with

 

wings and really

fast maneuverings —

 

the trick being the

getting in and out

 

before getting caught;

before forgetting how

 

we ever thought

we could return.

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the icing on our earth cake

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all of the mysteries we call colors,

combining to fall and swirl and mount around us:

 

how can this not be magic?

 

how can it not sweep us out of our dark and dirty little houses,

out into this open-faced

light-cave of quiet?

 

i step softly in the air and crystals

and feel the purity pulling at me,

 

making me want to float,

to fly, to be a

better builder,

 

to start over,

fresh as a new born, as

a colorless spirit, free from stains and haunts;

 

taking me to a place where

i make-believe, and believe,

 

and wonder, and marvel, and climb

up and out of the tallest peak

to see where it all began —

 

bewitched by a beauty that

breathes deeper, walks taller,

reaches higher,

 

eats up all of the snow

until a trill-column fills the throat:

the purest suffocation —

 

this white delight,

this bitter-sweet burden of light:

 

the icing on our earth cake.

snow spirit

grass-roots

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every thing real starts out

in the ground; grass-roots.

 

it must be grown.

time must be given,

 

and hands: until the

heat opens it

 

like a mollusk;

until the bi-

 

valves unfold

like a prayer.

 

above ground,

the chopping

 

of wooden words

into points continues:

 

forts;

haunts.

 

a split track matriculating

back into the ground.

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prisoner of hope

this is the time when

the trees show us their

skeletons, as if to say

here we are,

 

and here you are

too, naked and

nursing your

new wounds;

 

the view from

deep inside, the

wet veins and

cool canopies

 

where the ache

subsides for a time,

and you breathe in

the green memories.

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