we are december

while we were away,

winter happened.

 

i came home to fresh

frost on the grass.

 

we share this set of days,

this slow creep toward

 

the center of the snow

globe maze. at any moment,

 

a child’s hand can scoop

up the glass and shake us into

 

oblivion. her delight is

our delay. in the falling

 

flurries, i find you: wrapped

in your mother’s red scarf—

 

holding the hand of time.

we are the child, the snow,

 

the mother, the scarf;

we are december.

 

 

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eighth

o ye of little faith,

o ye of tiny bank account,

o ye of large heart,

o ye of many worries,

 

o ye of few true friends,

o ye of precious child,

o ye of perpetual exhaustion,

o ye of strong passions:

 

if you have but the faith of a mustard seed—

yet even a half, a quarter, an eighth—

 

you shall be seen and heard; you shall be

provided for; you shall inherit the mountain.

jupiter blues

i’m taking the back roads again, caught
in the dark folds of the map; on foot,

turning down that alley i know
is bad news—walking straight in-

to the waiting chase i always
barely escape—like careful

gravity pulling me down in-
to the deepest cavities:

black eyes and hands
like a cave-cage. i break out

and run toward your voice,
the most intimate gift

you can give from way
over there. i would take

the 310 train, but i have no
idea where that is and i’m

nowhere near miami.
you used to love watching

mom get ready, dabbing things
onto her face and neck in

the oblong mirror: the dis-
tortion familiar and needed.

you died in your sleep in
the early morning rain.

at some point before-hand,
you left that voicemail:

you should see the write-
up about her;

she’s making the big
bucks now.

your belief in me
was my life blood.

it still comes through in
dreams: echo shadows of

things that once were; a temporal
cure for things i may never know.

dark thorn

dark thorn
rising,
howling,

filling-falling-emptying,

like every
thing living.

there are exceptions:

dreaming-flying-loving-spiraling,

sixth-seventh-sensing —
in which you never come down.

transcending the
libelous
fear:

finally.

the eye of the needle
leers,

drags
down the out-line;

under a blood moon,
muddy waters

spit-shine.

the keys to the kingdom
are mine.

help my un-belief.