up early —
from everywhere,
grief;
a bright stain on the vision,
a frenzy for touch
pulsing out of stare of sun.
a swarm of laggard days
is sleeping now,
shimmering there.
all us shadows
(tottering, lost)
will come to find it.
working draft
What Becomes of Desire
swollen black of bruised sky
thick fabric of want
noise of black thick black of noise
passers-by pass by
black sheet of night
far sound of a car radio
the curl of the turning sea –
all forms of withholding
and sighing –
wind went like a feather of breath.
And knowing
what becomes of desire.
Our Own
with our own hands
poetry
mirror
out of darkness
mouths
knew too much
live like this:
early
astronomers
like flame
then always
like flame
this manner is dance
unbridled
beyond artifice
flooded in sun
in a room
half-
familiar
recognize grief
as lost
Heart Growled
smelling of wood
remembering garden
impatient flowers
relentless against
night’s peel
a whimpering dream
of gold chimed
a dappled tapestry
of threads
like a shore
the wave knew wandering
freedom
untended confusion.
Noon Sun
Too hectic to take a bow
in the warm dust;
torn by moment
as meadow.
We Saw This
We Saw This
down the damp-black streets
castled and cherried
walking away hard
hard as snow crust
signals went wrong
or died or turned
we crossed the road
beneath another day
another morning.
I stiffened with the wind.
I went home to summer,
glad of it.
Too rich, too bizare
murky morning
I turned to see how he ran;
absent-minded
flourished
listening.
One Narrow Old Silent
Tunnels wail, examined.
Branches, bitten, forgive.
The Stranger
The caged thing,
the body disbelieving
its bulk.
The phantom driver,
the undercover
we check
and swallow.
Scant testimony,
we hang
loose to the bone.
These Common Senses 