iv.

it starts with

a surge,

 

the intersect of

neck, solar plexus,

 

words — — then,

the dark descent

 

down, down into

the cave drawings

 

of who am i?

 

hunted,

haunted,

 

built for

slow idolatry

 

and waiting:

which is its

 

own electricity—

self-sustaining

 

legacy.

after all is

 

said and done;

after all the

 

battles fought—

few won;

 

what am i here for?

 

 

 

 

love to you and

the way you hold a

pencil,     the way you bend and tilt

 

toward what is important, toward

what moves you     and yet holds

 

you in stilled animation,

wonder,     desire;

 

the way your face      opens

to the widest smile, the

 

bluest

laugh,          like music

 

giving in.     love to you and

the granular tender-

 

ness in your eyes, on your

finger   tips, between the     universe

 

of your lips,     the tension of your sighs. this

kind of     love     has no name; it is just a

 

grate   ful   ness to be in the

same world with      you.

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.

free-dom

you make me

feel my bravery,

 

my body

memory.

 

how many centuries

have we climbed

 

together? you hand

me the spy glass and

 

i chart our course: over

too many thoughts and

 

too few feelings. we

are always seeking,

 

always forgetting where

we’ve tread; always reach-

 

ing for a brand-new match-

ing set: heart and head.

 

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.

if we are never

every time i have words for you,

i throw them into a poem.

 

they’re safer here,

and grounded.

 

i can feel you right here

with me:

 

in the shelves, in the recipe-sheaves,

between the leaves:

 

pressed tight

and true.

 

even if we are never

together,

 

we are, somehow.

i don’t under-stand it;

 

but i honor it and love it

and wait for it to change

 

me, every

time.