slow autumn silence
descends, settles
to root loneliness.
old hearts pause, aching
in the spacious silence,
stones, even,
waiting for a whole season
to exhale,
finish.
I spread myself now
across the taut surface
of earth’s thin skin
bone bliss of that little death
after such long dying.
remember the
feel of grass blown against lean
thighs, hot scent of dirt.
i remember each
breath we breathed of each other’s
under the blanket.
i remember you
and wonder who am I, who
am I now: pale, lost.
i remember language
of seasons, timber cracking
of cold, rivers sighing.
now I have nothing.
no one now knows the thread counts
woven together,
breath of one wind, our
beat of one old earth heart, one
longing cloud’s soft moan …
i remember when
i belonged against the earth,
brown and dusty.
i am two lovely
minds one cussing wild, one
smooth stone.
hating with one hand
loving with the other – why
allow serenity to sheath
assassin’s blades?
be this,
be that, smile
little lady
be mine …
bull
shit.
i am cutlass and monk.
always approve of
you, either.
own your own.
these are mine.
every branch is bent low, still
this wind shouts at them, beating
them hard, testing
their willingness to dance on
for days, dance on like
dervishes falling
into the ecstasy of spring.
out back by the runway
fence, dirty air settling now
cool movement just brushing the
backs of our hands before
the rounds pop, so far away
we’re not sure … is it?
is it?
then your palm on the back
of my collar, one lift and hard
shove down the narrow
lane between sandbags and
we’re full out, laughing and
fucking well near panic
to be fair, still, I fall
headlong and laughing hard
onto my trailer floor, panting.
i miss the weight
of body armor defining
the edge of ribs
curve of resting
spine after a long day
outside the wire.
I still miss the smell
of jet fuel funking up
morning air, sun
a flat orange disc
strolling up over the dirt
lot where tanks park.
I still miss the clack
of long guns rearranged
and the snick-clack of
handguns armed at the gate,
a thump of artillery out at
the airfield as we watch
from the highway, out
the main gate, just
in time to avoid
lockdown.
half the sun hid
behind the moon,
dimming daylight
in the way
smog dulls a blue
sky in the city.
under the trees,
half-moon shadows
are scattered like tricks,
feeling too much like
lies that are sensed
without proof.
imagine one hour
of half-moon shadows
if no one announced
that coming, only:
here it is, imposed.
the world would again be
mysterious.
a wonder.
a threat.
mt baldy sneaks out of the sky at dawn
snow then shocking, garish for
minutes at a time depending upon
angles and particles in the still and
heavy air.
i hear mr sands is missing up there
somewhere and i don’t know him but
i worry about his final moments, worry
that i can hear his voice calling death
songs across this valley and i’m not
heeding an obvious theory of discovery.
mr sands is not my
responsibility, not mine.
i’m not from here and know
nothing of this mountain’s folded
language its bent skirt’s sharp
tongue, so nothing feels as obvious
as that dawn song implies
it might be.
i can’t help mr sands and now
the mountain is not as
beautiful.
i left the cats
on a bench,
ears twitching,
tails rattling,
gnats thick as sunshine,
as those young rushes at
the shore below, lake
silver and still.
orphan poems 