on an old desk
- things get scrawled there
between tasks
like a net across some
far sky hung
to catch then let go
unharmed,
winged things - lovely, odd and/or
creepy:
a slow descent into trust -
more intimate, more ambiguous than
faith. it won't be put to words and
all those clashing versions
… something underneath.
your face, to hold the sun in
high planes and angles,slanting down
to blue shadow.
a sureness in its intuition
like the sureness
of the ground where twilight falls
past itself.
a heat blurred horizon -
objects go indistinct then
vanish while my vision
holds on
~ maybe I can still see
a pinpoint form -
maybe breath,
however slight,
is not fully gone.
black and slick
it is not late enough and soon
will be too early
- a black door at the end of
a corridor -
we try to leave it closed but
it is a door after all, so
it ever suggests itself.
the shadows of bees on the grass,
the roar of private sorrow
rising from every single one,
from everyone, so loud'we
cannot hear.
mobius ribbons of moving blood patterned in
a place that is described as
inside me - but it is all so committed
to so much other than "me."
grey more surely grey,
wood more surely wood,
light as light as
light can be, and
you and me
more tender, embarrassing,
fierce ... storm hailing
sorcery from the mundane,
rearing up to crush me back,
scrape me from the flat and pack me
into a box more surely box.
a push without pause,
a dense field of feeling,
ruined by interpretation -
music dies ...
the diamond forsakes
predetermined grooves and erupts
in a scratch straight line screech.
the groan of heat swollen trunks
holding high a failing afternoon
- my heart clasps itself for comfort
and squeezes.
