out of the dark I am come
with the sea to drown
hell. out of the light with
a conflagration to burn
paradise. it is in the breath
that I have loved you
in the layer between in
and out. we speak too
much of beginnings and 
endings while the birds
circle; we think we are going 
somewhere impossibly
small and distant as the 
head of a pin while the seasons move
back and forth among
leafed and barren bodies.
you speak the first syllable
which is O, the letter with
no end. when I put my tongue
upon your breast the O
repeats itself when I impress
my forefinger on a still
pond or a navel the O repeats 
itself when the eye of the dawn
opens on your forehead or
between your heart’s valve 
or in the crucible of the groin
the O repeats itself. the other letters
are broken ships but for you
for I the sea stands between 
heaven and earth, emptying itself out
filling itself up. it is no wonder
why weeping feels
endless and full of salt
no wonder that lovemaking
feels the same.

fog erases the entwine
of hill and valley. 
I know the world is
beautiful, a silver sea
but I can't remember
what it is like to be 
touched.
​

friend, don't be alarmed
when I write of the blue 
bells of the chest, of the dead, 
of the layered sea and the
weeping. I am chock full
of salt you say, marred
and alone as the moon's
face. there was a time
when I only recorded joy
but could not escape from a
paper box. the sorrow, 
you see, is a map. 
at one end is death
and my task, my only task
is to teach death to live. 
it's not enough to walk
by the lilies nodding.
there must be a story 
of how the silvered stars 
flung their knives and cut;
how the rain tenderized the 
craggy earth, how someone's
beloved left no trace. no story, 
and all you are is a lousy tourist:
you'll leave town before
the secret celebration.  
​
​

the moon doesn't blot 
out the sun, it just drifts
before it no more
no less than the interposition
of the earth's broad stone wheel 
between us tonight
every single night
for the rest of our lives.
if you are waiting for the 
Great Change, examine
the character of your hands
instead, the magnetism 
of your heart, its crimson
will to go on beating through 
any darkness.
​

some days, the bear
wins and I pass
through another
turn of the wheel
an animal, an eye
growling from
a cave. I'll spare you
the plea for sympathy
or romance. 
we are all born 
fools but how we
die is a choice. 
for myself, I think
I will stretch out 
long on the grass
under the sun
like a broken 
automobile. 
or droop into
the water, disappear
like a fish. sometimes
it's better not to
return, to keep 
going out until
the ship of the heart
become the fog.
​

the sky marks 
the oak with its 
spiraling voltage;
clouds smash things 
upstairs; my mother 
would scream at me 
get out of the storm!
but even now I am 
wandering further 
into it, disappeared
like a lamp-post
am thinking still 
of the wind’s clean
erasure, no jacket
heaven's script 
above argon-lit, 
no, there are no
excuses for being 
foolish in passion
for wandering under
the pointy sky and 
golfball hail
but if imagining
a kiss, enough,
reason in unreasonable
risk, don’t trust 
me, the world is
full of human fools
ask the oak, old, steady 
who nudely wears it 
but still reaches up.
​