even the stars
were off kilter
last night
orion laying low
on the horizon
the southern cross
trying to kiss
cassiopeia
.
my feet were on the ground
but my heart kept floating
.
ursa major
poised to capture
every tear
.
.
.
.
i search for beauty in the bones of every skeleton
architecture is the art of building frames
i thought i was a writer once, then i became human
the sky is a cage built for starlings
i am the ghost of my grandmother, re-contrived
.
all the leaves have fallen now and the wind has moved on
we stand naked in the weak winter sunshine,
refusing the invitation to bend
.
.
.
.
the night
i showed you
the shape
of insanity
you called me a liar
and a thief
screaming your colorful
banshee derision and demanding
the return of your soul
i had no way
to make you understand
i’d given up my science
for you
walked away from theory
and formula
left behind explanation
and conclusion
i wanted to show you
my passion
i wanted to offer
my heart
i wanted to light
the darkness
with new stars
and share the pattern
love makes
as it races
through the night
from you
to me
but you
were unable
to see
.
.
.
And happy to be there, settling in finally, after all these years.
You have to know your limitations and work them
into the fabric of your life.
Pick them apart and darn them back together.
You have to go in circles to get to the center.
All of life is only ever held together by a thread anyway,
no matter how much you want to think otherwise.
It’s a trap you construct to keep yourself alive,
even if you must begin anew each day.
You do it because survival is a never-ending puzzle,
a labyrinth, a fibonacci dream,
and you are always listening
for the sound beneath the sea.
You do it because everything beautiful
is woven of dark’s lightest threads and
every negative space holds eternity.
You do it because you’re thirsty,
and even dew on the edge of a crooked-silver web
will sustain you.
.
.
.
because even the light can trap you if morning
comes too soon and each tiny thread
is a miracle of meaning
drawn tight through the fabric
of pattern’s dedication
with all the patience of temporary
everything we build is false and
ruins prove nothing but existence
which is why the sky
is always the only witness
held captive in stuffy hotel rooms
and protected by a new name
every season
but i tell you
the earth keeps turning and we are all
just figments of gravity’s imagination
built of stone and empty vessel
carved raw in the likeness of star and spider
held together by shiny bits of belief
.
.
.
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
.
.
.
