the silence is a steep silo around me:

comforting and suffocating.


i have to get inside it every day.


my vessel with feet of clay is a

blue bulb breaking—


spilling angry-beautiful



i look up through the tiny window

to see tiny leaves clapping:


calling for a



as you were

i remember you.
i remember a
city on a hill, a
porch on the watch,

a storm born, brooding;
a catafalque of calm
before the god-breath of
wonder and wrath:

a storm-flooding.

i remember
as you were.
i remember

within the bower,
atop the tower,
the crow’s nest
power of a

rock climb. an indian
wrestling with
spirits and sounds
placed down on a

spinning record in time. i
remember the line:
i saw a tree by the
river side. i remember

you as you are.

walking ’round the
curling star-ring of fire,
wandering across night
fields between measures

of steps of twisted-beautiful
human error, humming
under the exigent
knowledge of a grand

design, an owl hoot, a
compass-in-pocket, a
grid of green destiny
set down beneath kindred

hoofs, outside silent fox
holes where we atone
for our atom door
again and again;

through which our
magnum opus
crawls, a trinket
trinity hanging by a

thread, positing,

bound to its own
grief, bathing in the
pounding out of so
many heart beats:

humanity. divinity. humility. love.

here, where the
chief pulse perseverates
across the face
of God.

honor system

if i have to die

being hunted,

being chased and cornered and cut –

i want it to be

at the behest

of an animal:

a lion, bear, wolf, shark;

by the sharp eyes and teeth

of something hungry,

something in need,

something that can’t know

greed or hate

or how to ameliorate

my pain.

the passing of pax romana

she sits in her space and feels a stirring,

much like the wind, much like a calling

to another place not yet

known, not yet her own:

her fingers buzz with forbidden

magic; her mind moves mountains.

the invisible warrings

of love write themselves

quietly on the back-side

of her heart-quilt, sewn in

tight like jewels, like journals

coming alive on the inside linings

of her organs, playing out

their orange chicanery.

just outside the monastery

of her own making, she

gazes at her mother repeatedly

riding in on the tide, her spirit

slipping into her shell sides;

she holds the best close

to her core and lets

the rest follow back

with the moon.

in this room for the living

in this room for the living,

this calico chirping


in the window, thinking

she is a red, red robin;


this lantern singing,

this green brush growing


her lush periwinkle comb,

grooming me into the next


branching under which i am

disarmed by the charms


of soft pine stories, gently

pressing their charges


against me as i walk,

walk, walk into dissolve.


to serve and preserve


they cut down all of the trees, the

bushes, the crawling ivy and

delicately curling sinews of

grass and time. the birds

are calling to each other,

calling to us, looking for

their homes. i am still-seeking

a space: a quiet-green

carapace to call my own, to

borrow in this brief

breath of time. who needs

a throne when you have been

given all of the vast-purple

riches of the universe?


declaration of independence

when, in the course of four

mountains, one encounters the

four winds, and the four directions

by which they came;


when the buck meets you on the

borderland and says: we are one

in the same; when the eye of the

cliff excoriates your four-score soul;


when you descend from the perfect-union

heights and wend your way down, down

into the well of stars to find the cell-singing

mountain bending beneath your feet;


when, in the course of four

sky-strings, you let go and

fling yourself off this earth

engine; and open every door.