Fall into Spring

As I listen to an insistent bird

on the other side of history

through a window on the second

that's open despite the rain,

and there is emptiness

expressed by a white cup

next to my elbow, and thirst

gathering clouds in my belly,

I wonder if some of the silent

pauses that persist are true.

Every drop has dimension;

a beginning of an end.

One voice is gone fluid with desire

and mixes with the tumult

of wild cries changing color

to match the scheme of the sky,

draws breath in between

shades of living and eternal,

and flies out to another

wanting the wanderer to find

the branch that breaks through

with it's fall into Spring.

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A Chill on a Hot Day

What do you want to know that you never do?

Shining through everything you left

shaded blue something gruesome and worn

hamfisted and warm begging for your stories

uncle max auntie min they want to hear about

the night when you and jim were shining

and maybe dynamiting or with sue

the fowl scattered when you flew back in

and you were light as a cockadoodledoo

no no you argue it wasn't me because I knew

your folks when you were two and we

never spoke then when I let them both in

before they were broken something you

could cry about remembering ghostly

like a chill on a hot day when you look

for the sun and he's not there just a wing's

edge just the brush of air and the ball

hovering mid rush you never will touch

because it's grown tall the tale you tell

from small to now when you don't know

rides eddies in the air and you don't know

hides the skies and you don't know who

waits all night because you never do

-

Open Ended

-

How Like You

You would have thought it over. Your precious mind would surge all over that like rising tide.
The bonfire would drown and some kid would always decide to swim out as far as he could.
The good ideas are sweet under the shiny sky with just a hint of something ugly, soft and cold.

But you shake that off because it's sunny now and you and I have things to do and are busy.
Watching the ants move or moving with the flow as the six legged trio plugs into every hole,
you taste delicious like the bell rings when the door opens and you've got the ovens going hot.

I bring you curling into my mouth like smoke and you bring me home. We fuck. It refreshes us.
Part of me gets up into a small corner niche and won't come down until the screaming stops,
and then a hot bun with butter and whatever spilled when you swept out the door. The tiled floor.

Two open holes draw us toward them. Two more tell you to run when I come into your mind.
I'm looking for a place to hide. Watching you from within as if I were what you saw, as one.
I don't know why you never called on the good night, black, well-lit. Rising sun young alone.

You could have thought it over. Still sore about the other night you could have called out
your voice wet with foam as if watching the stars gather into the bright center of the hole
left you drifting out there watching for me to seem nearer. Lighter than sparks in the air.

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