i want to read you

i want to read you;

i want to feel your words

slip over me, pull me into

their tide, strip me down with

their waves without trying.

 

i want to listen to the music

of your thought, follow it

into the forest, happen upon

a leprechaun and wood spryte

making gold, making love.

 

i want the letting of all this

matter into energy; these

disguises to fall away, the

memories of mountain-tops

to sway in their return.

 

i want to deep-dive into a

painting of a thousand sun-

sets, moments spent think-

ing of you; of our writing, of

our meeting: one and the same.

refuge

healing is always happening

in forgotten parts of the

body, like pockets of fog in a

forest that goes on forever.

 

in this sanctuary, the voices

persist, like wind: tucking you

into the places you resist. the

 

only things that are real are in-

visible; but you already know this—

 

and you are all in.

 

when i was little

i remember sitting on the hard wood floor and

feeling like i was in a forest. i never thought

i would be living bill to bill, rent to rent, worried

about how to keep the hard wood over our heads.

i think i just thought it was all there–everything

we needed–for the taking, the sharing, the giving, the

living. it’s hard to live–really live–while worried about

your next deadline, next payment, next claim on your time.

i sit here writing about it instead of just living it. when i was

little i would go into my canopy worlds and escape time, escape

physicality, escape that palpable feeling of not belonging–

and would somehow find a soft space, between the knowing

waves and wise particles floating in the air and landing on the warm

wood, where everything felt right, connected, slowed way down

to perfection. i think this is where we are meant to be, back in the

forest of our child-mind, loving everything, living out the colors

and shapes and rhythms of play. no one had to tell us where to go,

or how to find it: our beautiful bliss was ever at our fingertips.

 

whales and wolves

you are here, and not here:

 

fly-swimming over deep

caverns and continents;

 

pack-running through the

wood-keep of your ancestors.

 

i am there, and not there:

 

scouring for seed sounds in the

caves best made for shouting.

 

the echoes know the truth;

they have been here before:

 

ma, da, wa, ka

ma, da, wa, ka

silvicultrix

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the art of doing nothing,
waiting for the something
to arrive: a glass dipper,
a studded wardrobe, a
silent snake creeping;

the heart of living in the past,
just under the stroke of mid-night:
a diadem moon lowering onto our heads,
a dream within a dream within a dream
removing all doubts and currencies.

i am dismantled again and again
in this place without name,
without boundaries:
in my forest green alive,
in my one knit slipper.

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