and sometimes we find it
nestled in
between sanity and severance
leaf and litter
imitation and impostor
our hands
will always
get dirty
in the search
but that’s the nature
of atonement
and you know
what they say
about cleanliness
.
.
.
and we swam circles around each other
like shark or sunfish or skittering
pond skaters
because
neither one of us
heard ophelia singing
and what did it matter
so deep in the forest
of upside down
neverland
sky
.
.
.
and all the other places
i’ve never been
never seen
never learned
to love the light of
that’s bad grammar
i know
but i’m talking about life
and loss and nevers
and there are no rules
no platitudes
no built-in panaceas
to make my knees
stop creaking
or my hands
look any less
gnarled
don’t get me wrong
i wear my wrinkles
like jewelry
cherished accessories
of sentimental
value
and i smile
when i drive and they remind me
i’ve forgotten to apply
lotion
again
dry skin cracking
me up
and five times a day
i get surprised
by my own reflection
remembering i’ve aged
only when i see proof
or try to get out of bed
time
hides in patterns
paisley pretty and
just as intricate
as the web
i’ve spun
into my
crinkle crackle
carapace
but my shadow
retains the shape
of youth
or at least
remains smooth
and unmarked
by the scars
of regret
and i sip
slowly
from the cup
of forgiveness
.
.
.
in a sky mixed from paint and loose smoky cloud
sung by the song of ophelia’s left wrist
floating home on a river of chasm
we are built with such fragile temerity
says a poster on the wall of indifference
held in place with tacked-up tone diamonds
ripple-torn by the weight of overwhelm
it’s all too much and never enough
because cut glass and cold minded carbon
are futility’s intrinsic fossil
holding on to lost light with the fine-crazed frailty
of their own impetuous gleam
the stars will always hang high
in one corner of sky
but first you must swallow the darkness
.
.
.
in the middle of a day
laced with rain cloud
and robin
singing hymns to unseen
heavens
i found a grave
beneath
the tallest poplar
perfect circle
of blown-out feather
grey on white
white on grey
death
in the center
a ring to fit
a broken finger
a hole for grief
to tumble into
and the echo
echo
of eternal
narration
.
.
.
backlit by storm
and the magic of timing
there is never a moment of silence
something somewhere
is always rumbling
and i learn to take peace
in the pauses
there is never a pillow
of sweet dreams
everafter
but rather
this reality
of storm and sunshine
creeping in
on stealthy paws
and we sit
together
stare each other
down
from the comfortable
distance
between us
.
.
.
thorn of light
thorn of bright
trapped
in the call
of a prussian
blue night
i am gypsy
i am queen
to the hounds
of hope unseen
slipping silent
racing whole
through a screen
of web retold
counting distance
and return
with an abacus
of learn
blood roses
blooming tight
on the skin
of my lost flight
.
.
.
and wishing for clarity
the kind that only comes
when you can’t see anything
a storm passes through
and the trees
bend to meet their maker
as water runs rivulet
to river
to wash away
a tyranny
of dust
and we must learn to beg
forgiveness
or perception
zig and zag
as we run free
in the silence
between raindrops
we must learn
to drop to our knees
genuflect and
bow in a prayer
of defect
broken limb and
scattered branch
the only clues
to guide us
through a cold-cracked sky
of false deliverance
.
.
.
purple is the shape
of letting go
and blue is the beginning
of sacrifice
all the scars and torn edges
faded blooms and broken stems
form the canvas of whole
and the soft brush of plenty
as gold fills every sky
with perseverance
.
.
.
and it’s the magic of twilight that draws me outside, down the hill to a swamp filled with peepers. some nights the sound roars through the darkness, and on those nights, it’s not that i can’t sleep, it’s just that i don’t want to. my primal memory wants to lie outside and count the starts into numbers too large to carry. my feet refuse to forget the sensation of walking. nothing is clear in the darkness, but everything shines, and until you’ve let the moon find your shadow, you’ve never once stood in real light. there are secrets out here, everywhere. the trees are always whispering. i want to walk into the forest and do nothing but listen. that’s where all the answers are, but we’ve forgotten how to hear them. lightning reminds us, but only for a moment. and thunder makes us forget yet again. i want to wash my hair in the rain and leaves my toes caked with mud. i want to run through the color of midnight.
.
.
.
