My ancestry is the sun
Maintenant je suis maudit
Now I am an outcast
Perfect your beauty
Perfect your sensitive life
Your soul arriving quiet and searching
Wandering, embracing –
Here I add a word –
We are underfed
But there is heavy sweetness
In a warm dark bruise
"Going to Georgia"
Passing window after window bleeding tungsten
When the night is thick I drive
deeper in the tree lines trailing an
orange like parking lots
We chase our own light and exhale
tirelessly in our wake
asphalt still picking my knees from its
I keep walking trying to find new memories before
this place forgets them
I picked its mind and found under mud, inside trees bowing lower to
Houses calling closer
Watching the sunset on the field until the trucks came in
What they left unburied gets unearthed
Poured full with concrete
Stepping on urchins in my dreams
Picking shards from the soles
of my feet
In memory the fall sky forms
Deeper than anything I’ve seen lately
Weaving different smoke into my clothes
And a waning moon whose face
I hope to still recognize in a crowd
The slip into anaphora
when I say ‘house’ instead of ‘homeland’
The Voice and the Peak
(a dream from 12/21/13)
A mountain’s ridge and peak close,
the winds endless throw snow into the air like
the smoke from a candle blown out
you store trees up there, tied up.
The ocean, i see it between treetops, suddenly, it almost
seems like a wave stopping just short of flooding your home.
it stands deep and tall remembering Egypt
you defy distance and dive in-
In colors together, you say something of me.
As the mountains should be, blue, settled by treetops.
Standing distance and you’ll never
know me, unfolding into patterns of life so neatly hidden and
large. I see you every year, in passing.
I stare into your eyes, during morning-in nights, never close.
If I call your name, the fog will not stir, the sky
descending into your profiles after sunrise
will not alter its course to any other heartbeat.
How many cold mornings, lace curtained moments do you remember, I-
have slept beside you, spoken often as a way of breathing inside you,
as echoes of lost and a prodigal wind moving close to the ground
between the trees. i waited in parking lots as if repeated far-offs never shivered or turned their head.
You are my distances
and nearness, my remind-me-of and never-yets
The unbroken frost blooming in my throat