.
.
de
(con)struction
is the shape of flame
roaring consummation
in the face of absolution
exposing spire
and ancient skeleton
burning history
back
to blood-soaked
prayer-lipped
earth
and
mortality’s
imminent
stain
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
crescent
i am howl-edged
and harp-hounded
running miracles
through tattered
branch-armed
paths
in the darkness
of sanity’s
lair
.
. . . . .
.
.
body & soul
and the inevitable
push
pull
of attempting
to define
either
one
.
. . . . .
.
.
and we laughed
at the eternity
of sunsets
happy to be alive
and married
to our own vision
of mystery
the future
wrapped up
in wire-edged
gold mesh
ribbon
a gift
we will
never quite
open
.
. . . . .
.
.
frayed
if i had a word to sing
i would hold you
accountable
pronounce you
intractable
whisper false
accents
trace a clef
on a wrist
or a sixteenth
elsewhere
in a dissonant
concordant
letter
.
. . . . .
.
.
i bought a tree once
and it’s still
sitting in my garden
still
in the same black nursery pot
stunted and hungry, yes
but still alive
i’ve lost track
of how many years
it’s been
and yes
i’m embarrassed and
ashamed and
guilty
(life gets away from you
sometimes)
but i must admit
i admire
the refusal
to die
.
. . . . .
.
.
on learning to breathe
(again)
nothing is ever forgotten
but rather, buried
one day you will decide to clean
and sweep aside a leaf
and there it will be:
the empty bowl
of everything
.
. . . . .
.
.
the way irony has
no sense of humor
and still we carry on with living
even in the midst of chaos
step outside to song of robin
filtered through
cacophony
ten million geese
(from the sound of it)
fill the air
with riot
a crazy quilt of noise
blankets silence
as earth grows warm and roots
spread fingers
seeking growth
in the darkest
of places
.
. . . . .
