Professionals don't love,
They let the anchors choose,
From their fog-filled channels,
The late heartbreaking news.
But I want to show thee
In time, what time can't keep.
Let's make our haste slowly,
And unload it for cheap.
If only I had the sense to shave
Off this thick archaic rime,
We could set verses free by a grave
Like a pie for dinner time.
So let them tell Splendor she is done,
For I have seen a mountain eat the sun,
And have taken as a sacred task to replace
Their learned theories with human grace.
If life seems odd,
You're learning to see
Bird shadows snugged
In the wind-stained tree
Where you hang this feeling
Of sleeping in a noose.
Do ash and autumn
Mix to any use?
The gold leaves burn
In backyards with you.
A bent branch reserves
A space for two,
Or anything at all,
Let her hands wake yours,
To let you choose you.
We strode dumb with creation, mercy us,
(Our hands our feet) moving fast free smooth right
Over marble floors, their own whispered trust.
Like lines from letters returned unopened
That shadow-born servants could not ignore,
You looked. We looked, for what wasn't spoken,
But found only the falling of the shore.
Our faults seemed arrows that refused to fly,
Relics from a time when kindness was vice.
Still, I tried. And still their still tips woke in me
Words of wanting, like cats sing songs of mice.
They named new names for why waters weave,
Drawn back like the last bow from our sleeping sea
At dawn: Alexander and Genevieve.
The child chants in the kitchen.
We killed saints for what they knew.
Still, one shouldn't whine
When our holy count so few.
Though in a handful of line
Some ink has broken through.
Any poet who pens
Ten years or more
Might scribble none or two.
Then how do
I ignore this all for you?
I ignore this all for you.
I touch the trees,
I give them pleasure;
room to room,
sky to sky,
we stage hidden scenes
as bells sing and linger
in our orchard arms
As daylight tore away the empty streets
women fingered their jewels,
and almond scented wrists begged
for whitest sleeves to press against.
We whispered riddles to ourselves
that only oracles could understand.
It seemed you and I
were the speaking out
of faith to faith.
I knew then
your suns and designs
and the truest tales of our mothers
that challenged the twisted boy
mourning trumpets he could never play.
One of our lips parted
and the most reckless anthem of the wise,
a vast ruin unlawful yet kind swept
up among the blackened boom
of space's morning eternal.
My brother, that other one,
Will not pick me up.
But watches, without bemusement
Or compassion, without measurements
Or secret plans, and waits.
He carries a ring, brighter,
Larger than mine, and protects
By not protecting.
I met one held a thing
as distant and as near
as what lovers knew
before the apple grew;
some seeming trinket
with mars light threaded through
and edges not its own.
I felt I had a home
from which bright paths unspooled
your and my and love's
to part each moment kissed
by pure intensity.
I met one held a thing