the opposite of time

there are no synonyms for

you; you are one of a


kind. in my dreams, it is

so clear: what i want.


it is the meeting of

body and mind.


my mind does not

leave my body; she


takes her along,

loves her the whole


stay. being asleep

is the real awake:


the opposite of time.


while not asleep,

i’m in my own way.


i hold my blueberry coffee;

i stand in the hospital corridor


with my throat shut. the

sickness perseverates


in the mouth, jaw,

throat, chest, gut;


the non-words

in duress.



is terror—


a forever



but in dreams,

it is made into


beauty: alchemy

as it should be.


i go to sleep under

a November tree,


between the

bright carpet


and brighter

hangings, and


meet you there.


the open-aching field

when my girl was two, she would catch me
gazing off into the distance while sitting with
her on the quilted bed, the green carpet, at
the white-tiled kitchen table. she would later

say this look terrified her. she didn’t
know why. maybe it was because she knew
i was not really there; that i was off
some-where else, galaxies away:

floating, wishing,
running, escaping—
to a place she
couldn’t go.

sometimes it was as if i were looking
right past her, through her; and she would
know an emptiness she should not. now and
then she would break into my line of sight

with a jolt or a giggle, wake me from my
daze with her chubby cheeks and hands and
might. i would come back down as if from a
dream, into the most beautiful night-mare.

sometimes when i woke i would forget: every
thing had changed; we were no longer living in
our home; we were no longer living in our lives.
i’ve thought about this for fourteen years and

i still don’t know how to live in the present, to
sit on the floor with my child and just be with her,
just be with the miracle, the fade of the moment,
the open-aching field of expansion and loss.

give me


give me your suffering,

your training wheels,

your spare rooms.

i implore you to share

what you were about to

say, standing there

cute like a cupcake, in-

voking an in-voluntary rush

that runs and runs and could

elevate the dead. but first, engage

the fluid backdrop of the head: forti-

fied with a sand wall of lit-up dixie

cups. welcome to the stellar

circus, where we are all cotton-

woods coming apart on the wind.

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,








you’re still very small: you

don’t take up much room,


here in this swollen

swoon of little sips and


tiny turn-key tips

like bread-crumbs


to follow down

this crooked path.


you create your own

paucity of time, which


is always

just enough,


just tucked into your

breast-pocket as you


dig through hidden

portholes, running


straight-laced lines

directly to the muse;


swiftly turning the hurried

world upon its haptic head.



of a truth

listen: the

signal song

stretching out

its mile arms



as a slink


a steel tower

turned on




it surrounds,

wraps you in


given, taken


locks, scarves,

and lockets

shaken out

of lecturns


listen: the

whistle of

the spirit

calling to

the lantern


to the mind

you put on a


speed track


without the


the fingerpaints of god

like falling in

love: can’t under


stand how it works;

why it stops working


or how it winds up

again. how it


rings out

in the night–





steeples and 

train bells–


like how a rail thinks big

and a tower thinks high.