morning mirror and happenstance
pulling hope down at the corners
of a month meant for introspection
snow blows sideways against a window
curtained
a sparrow fights for survival
everyone, everywhere
arguing about books
and this is silence
holding tight
to a morning
short on light
showing up
as always
never quite
arriving
.
is buried in alaska
i know this because
you told me once
sitting on a square picnic table
beneath a dry dark sky
lit with acid green borealis
cassiopeia and orion
the only witness
to a wedding meant
for other people
another time, another place
blah, blah, blah
you get the picture
just a far off
long gone
atmospheric memory
rippling light and music
to lovers in a land
we’d only dreamt of
we watched in silence
for hours
those hours,
cradling minutes,
the quiet,
bone cold
seeping up
through cheap
cracked boots
and hol(e)y
handmade
mittens
with all these unwrapped gifts knocking at my ankles
and the color of contentment dripping down walls
there are words for almost everything
in the center of the room
but in each corner
it’s all dust and whispers
poised to destroy and bent on feeding
there is doubt in a vase
shedding sheer pink petals
and avarice growing roots
along white baseboard
the light is full, and golden
drawing pictures that pretend and
puncture actuality
as my fingers grow gnarled on a keyboard of instruction
poised for promises and platitude
never rendered
outside, the wind is howling
and still,
i am yours
.
.
.
seventeen years later
that’s what we call it
not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven
two words
three digits
two towers
four planes
thousands
of
mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends
not statistics
falling
from
the
sky
not dates
or where were you’s
just whole hearts
in odd numbers
each one
the only necessary
evidence
of love
::
.
.
.
there will always be days
stretched tight
by the too dry skin
of living
there will always
be evil
rubbing shoulders
with light
always be witches
dancing circles
at night
always a cloud
blotting out
the gold sun
always loss and possibility
mixing chance
in roiling ocean
it doesn’t have
to be enough
or even
filling
warmth is the illusion
of life
parody is pure
in the blossom of sight
and green things grow
from the cracks
in black ice
.
.
.
suddenly
there is all this color
all this light
shining green through
blue glass
and
it seems absurd
to think winter
equals hibernation
but i awaken
and there it is
a new year
that did not exist
yesterday
.
.
.
the world we sit in
and the world we live in
have become
two different things
by now
fifteen minutes
is the measure
of antipathy
and data
the construct
of worth
observation
has replaced
interaction
i see you
you see me
we do not touch
i know one thing
about you
you know
three things
about me
it all adds up
we can’t
catch up
.
.
.
busy
and the days grab me away
from the paying attention
to that color, that lilt,
that perfect light
one breath
one moment
take it in
notice
this is what matters
this one fleeting second
of pure, silent beauty
remember
.
.
.
clinging hard to the dance of dawn, delayed
and you can lie
belly up to the cold grey sky
letting go of all fear
til the hawk comes tapping
on one shoulder
nothing between us,
no shield,
no field,
nothing filling the corners
with debris
just these bold
reflection curves
and mist-mirrored
smiles
holding court
in a forest
of fancy
.
.
.
you sing me songs of february summer
and i laugh at the absurdity
because
nothing makes sense anymore
and everything
is a tune
from those long ago years
when we believed
in certainty
still
i smile and i dance
at words
spilled from
wist and sunshine
so ripe with yesterday’s
short season of naiveté
when we were young
and you were golden
and i
was just a rose
.
.
.
