∴
it is these little deaths in life –
broken, soil laid seeds –
that split us into green
and animate us
once again
and then again.
what small grains
are the hopes
that lay within;
minuscule promises
that birth being from under foot,
unseen.
but they are there.
take heart.
in the dark.
they are there.
∴
∴
even if our flesh failed
and we ceased to be
by temporal weight,
i suspect that –
from whatever form
our souls had taken on –
we’d still know each other.
that’s the kind of love
we’re all in,
but rarely open our eyes
wide enough to see it.
∴
∴
is this what you call a road,
my love?
and if we see it to its end,
shall we fly?
∴
∴
could we have made it?
if i had made
some less mistakes;
if you had taken
some missed retakes
could we have made it then, my love?
⋅
it is a hollow body
less the heart;
it is a whole
less inside parts
that we have made it now.
please,
can unmade making
new allow?
∴
·
humility is the prune of personality.
it keeps you regular.
·
∴
little plunges,
perfect dips
like tea bags
and bobbers
and whiskey sips.
bring me back
and further in
to the end of me
where you begin
and in the sacred silence speak
the bonds we’ve loosed
and the hopes we’ll keep.
for this, our truth,
the world averts
and severs and issues,
and marries its hurts.
i miss you,
o my soul
from all these practice runs at life.
i hold you,
ageless old,
my peace and promise ‘midst the strife.
bring me back
and further in
to the end of me
where you begin.
∴
∴
’tis a garden
i am started.
too late, too late,
last winter parted
and left her dream in me.
what bloom should coil back to bud
with stretch-less tendrils wound?
deny mine scent
for vacancy
and bury back in-ground?
no.
what’s planted outward pleas.
come spring
who ready, knows the course,
whose summer starts
by seeded source;
some dreams were meant to be.
∴
∴
place me on the wheel and spin.
let forming of my earth begin.
that spring should rise her sprouts to grow,
so i shall pull as the potter’s hands go.
up and to the shape of use
where firm is burned from fleshy loose.
this vessel, this urn
this ceaseless turn,
mold height in me from all this mass
make purpose purposed come to pass;
that thrown upon the reeling round
i climb, like vines, from bearing ground.
∴
∴
there are certain sharp moments –
as short and halting as deja vu –
when joy hypnotizes me
like a jolly venom
that paralyzes
time.
these moments can be most ironic
when felt in times of scarcity
or isolation.
but they come then,
too.
it goes to show,
i suppose,
that joy is such an emotional child,
it doesn’t care
about its provisions
and is exhilarated
simply
by being.
∴
∴
we all make messes.
friends are such
that help you
arrange them
in useful patterns.
true loves
behold
beauty
in them.
∴
