You squint the way one eye still aches
was shaped by rising water
as it flattens out in the silence

that wants you to make good
without asking why or what for
–it’s how moonlight works, half

disguised as tears to soften the ground
half as a sea that long ago left
all these bottom stones uncovered

as the mist where their breath used to be
–somebody owes them all something
though you come by to pay down one

that still has its arms around you
is pulling you closer to shore
by wiping the foam from your lips

–you darken the Earth to get a better look
and with child-like fingers count out loud
the letters in her name.

Before water was water it grieved
word by word the way each woman
caresses her first child

though what you hear is its mist
washing over those breasts
as moonlight and riverbanks

no longer struggling — by instinct
your lips will claim the Earth
with the kiss that gives each birth

its scent and between your arms
clings with just its bones
— with each kiss you drink

then weep and the dirt already rain
helps you remember nothing else
between your thirst and breathing.

As if they once had teeth, your hands
nibble on apples half mud, half worms
–you eat only what falls to the ground

rotted, serene, made dark
by the welcoming slope into evening
–you pick the way every stone

points where to rest, has this urge
to be useful, calms your arms
still attached to the same mouth

and milky breath, holding on
–you share these twins with the sun
stretching out on your forehead

shining in its darkness from the start
and in you arms the word
for offering, for stillness, pieces.

Step by step the nights
taste from weeds salted down
though even shorelines

decay, taking hold between
the dirt and one last look as dew
half marshland, half within reach

where her breasts are forever water
and from this darkness
the thirst you use for mist

and bitterness, surrounded by rocks
and in your throat her lips
saying things, ordinary things.

Between your two weakest fingers
the quarter slips, your wish
drowning half in moonlight
half held down by your arm

— you’ve got an hour in a meter
clogged with ancient lakes and marrow
with wings seeping through the altitude
where north stays stranded in your bones
juts from the curb
and a little water for your heart

— with the first handshake
you will forget again, your wrist
towed from beside some motionless glass
filled where nothing else is thirsty.

Passion Contents

Between your two weakest fingers
the quarter slips, your wish
drowning half in moonlight
half held down by your arm

–you’ve got an hour in a meter
clogged with ancient lakes and marrow
with wings seeping through the altitude
where north stays stranded in your bones
juts from the curb
and a little water for your heart

–with the first handshake
you will forget again, your wrist
towed from beside some motionless glass
filled where nothing else is thirsty.

Wild Transitions Contents