I built this house for us to live in
do not be fooled into thinking
it is made only of words
I have made you a bed of furs
with no blood in them
brought you lemon and whiskey
with wild honey to soothe
the throat of your longing
in daylight panes paneled
as if armor polished
to catch the sun
in the window later I light a candle
so your return may be easeful
in the kitchen I place
berries out of season
dressed in milk from a cow
who let it fall from her mouth
like singing when you enter
without knocking I give you
this garment warped
from the moon’s still eye blinking
in the weft of darkness
robe made with my gold thimble
and invisible stitches
red as the slick of my legs
I fasten it around your waist
in the shadows beneath
these beams made of trees
that remember
they once were both stars and tables
the stars are walking through the trees
for Shea
the stars are walking through the trees
I have accepted someday I will be erased by light
when I am I hope you will be the one
to take the mud and say as you anoint me with it
on the other side: you survived
because you were not afraid of being dirty
in memoriam 2023
how to love things back
as when you had
no fear of death does not
come like lightening
but out of habit
like a hungry cat
who impatiently mewls
for entry yet
when the door is open
takes uneven steps
forward backward toward
the empty bowl
that waits in all things
refusing to be hurried
aphrodite (January 23, 2024)
you are color
of when an ocean
of sometimes open sky
of when lungs decide
to be as if turquoise
o color of foam
inner and outer robe
wise one born
from a castrated father
equally stars’ shelter
and swan wings’ cradle
ornithology (January 5, 2024)
when I was young I kept
a canary in a cage
I chose her from among
the birds that lived
next to small glass oceans
and coiled leashes
even then I remember
she was solemn
and preferred the edges
at home she brooded silently
in the shit-crusted wicker nest
held by staples to the cage
that had been my great grandmother’s
I named her Vesper
her eggs often broke
shells thin as petals
of white iceberg roses
she did not sing
and I was young
I did not understand
why she was so quiet
but this also does not mean
she did not die
perhaps without ever
having had a chance
to choose a mate
or know the sky
the golden gear, composed and edited June 5, 2023
persistent and moved
only by the golden gear
of its own perpetual motion
the little machine goes
and goes no doubt when I end
if they should choose
to know the cause
they will find it
downy and tapping
against my ribs
once open instantly in flight
freed to follow you
to that green place
your white bones settled down
It is not tranquility, composed 5/23/2023
it is not tranquility
which opens
when I sit beneath
the old oak tree
instead like a fierce root
in the concrete of want
I thrust at once
down and up
a blade of grass
toward starlight
Kitchen Cabinet, composed 5/17/2023
the wood slats of my kitchen cabinet
long to return to the forest they came from
when I listen they show me a green ocean
that stretched for hundreds and hundreds of miles
not just any ocean you understand
but only this one they knew so well
though they could not name it
that they made their particular home in
Re: The Soul of the Rose by John William Waterhouse (1903
Re: The Soul of the Rose by John William Waterhouse (1903)
January 15, 2023
Listening I am turned
to golden pollen
sweet as if of lemon balanced
by bitter as of blood
Image accessed from wikimedia commons (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:John_William_Waterhouse_-_The_Soul_of_the_Rose,_1903.jpg) January 15, 2023.
Homage to Awakening
Homage to Awakening
January 14, 2023
In a river clear and free
I am a leaf
that turns
beneath
the radiant shade
of a blooming tree
where I also
at last go quietly