forgive me, father

forgive me, father

for i have sinned;


it’s been fifteen days

since my last poem.


these first baby steps

are weird and wonder-


ful; i wonder where

they are taking me.


maybe to you—to the

brightest thing in my life.


let me know where

your heart is;


let me know your

words so i can


steal them away:

the purest relation-


ship, you say, preserved

in this crystalline distance.


can you see them? the pink

clouds rowing through the sky?


humming right along-

side? we’re almost there.



sun wing 2

the longer you stay away,

the harder it is to return.


six degrees of separation

become six millenniums.


you take the long way home—

kicking up sun dust,


rust on your wheels, the

spindle of your spine


still turning to look back,

to keep weaving. your solar


plexus is on a slow-burn, couched

between your procured wings;


every thing is buzzing

on auto pilot


as you bring your ship in

through the streaks of dusk:


as you follow the yellow slick string

tying together this runway to infinity.


the leaving and the coming back is

a call and response you cannot


refuse—like falling on a cusped bruise:

you feel your flight from the inside out,


sitting cross-legged in your own sky, playing

pick-up-sticks with the long tender lines of light.

sun wing 1

Photographs by Joe Occhuzzio

roof over your head


what am i to say to this,

sky wrapped woolly and wet over me,

the itch to pierce that tight skin and

to keep flying threaded in?

the shapes speak to us all day long;

we shun the silence of octagons.

what’s yours is mine: we share this space,

complicit in its undoing.

let it undo you.

let it give you firsts and lasts;

let it thrust itself upon you.


the heart of sky (or, the other valentine)

the hearth, the heat, the

sweep of sleet

across the face.


did you know you could

keep this pace?


love this



in time with the bondage

of the eye:


the true measure

of the body —-


and the deep

cry of the beyond.


spread it all out;

write it all down;


drag it across your life-joist;

then burn it.


but first,

drain the



the archive will



the red, the breath,

the breadth,


the heart of sky.

open your eyes


the talking wires

shadow me on

my tiny-totem



the half dozen geese

hail the october sky

as they sail into her

wide, waiting eye


the writer spider

evolves her steel

city delicacy under

the front-porch eaves


as the body of knowledge

creeps in through the

thinking crack in

the winter-wall


and all in the

span of a wink


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.