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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asylum

look behind you:

the orchard-lined hall-

way; all the things that have

grown up and pushed out fruit

 

in your wake; the worn door frames

and door knobs, the sleeked floors slipping

under committed feet, the living point of contact

keeping you both here, resolved—all in, so to speak.

 

not since those first nine months

have you ever been so

in love with a

lynchpin.

fill

we fill, you fill,

they fill;

fill it up,

top it off,

until it breaks—

over and over:

this tiny fist of a machine

inside a bigger machine with

too many inputs and not

enough outputs. our off-

spring crack us open again

and again. we are nothing but

mechanized eggs. it’s not what

we want to hear; it’s not what

we want to believe; but we

are born into it with nowhere

else to go. we stare out the

two portals—sometimes three,

if we’re lucky—and try to really

see: our mother, our father, our

motherland, our altar. we act out

the lines of our code, never truly

understanding the words. the

motherboard is never satisfied.

 

 

 

and the creeks don’t rise

in every dream, a house;

in every room, a hole: a

broken floor, an exposed pipe, a

gaping window wanting to be a door.

 

at the end of a life, last words

are overrated: i’m so confused;

i’m in trouble; get the hell away

from me. it’s not like the movies.

 

you better hope you made your

amends, exchanged embraces,

made your love known while there

was still clarity. the last gasping

 

moments are not made for love.

 

 

 

 

 

things are not what they seem; things are not what can be seen

joy ride,

woven women,

diagonal snow like

tiny meteors,

stone sober,

an aura

laid over like

milk, wearing

makeup into

surgery, drawing

cream from a

tree, yellow jacket

of gravity,

a gold light,

a silver bell,

the magnetic shell

between.

superstition

you say the earth is my mother;

you remind me that she was there

to make me a mother, to make me

strong. i was a wolf once, and will

be again. many wolves come from me;

this is our tribe. inside, we are great

enough to hold a universe of paradox:

infinite paradigms, parallel lines

running alongside but never touching.

that’s what the circles are for.

we crawl in and out of this pack

design, through the mandala canal,

straight into the mind of god.

while waiting for your phone call

as soon as you leave

i feel it:

 

the immense sadness,

the emptiness, the

 

alone-ness.

 

it makes me wonder

why i’m here; what my

 

purpose is

outside of you;

 

outside of

bringing your life into

 

being.

 

this house, this rent,

this uneaten food in the

refrigerator.

 

as soon as i’m alone,

every thing is vast and open

 

and possible

again;

 

beautifully vacant.

 

it makes me think

and want to create

 

and fill up the spaces

with music and dance and

 

paint.

 

this piano, these poems,

this uncooked

recipe.

 

how can something be

so delicious and so alone—

 

electric in one moment,

and dead the next?

 

it’s a long, long road,

up through this fissure

 

into the dark hollow of

spine.

 

it’s the only way

to move and be moved;

 

it’s the only

way—up, up—

 

and it’s

mine.