3.29

Look through the window someone you know there.

Puss in Boots a cross on the ground

our unique object of continual want

poor alchemists waiting for Elias

when there’s nothing left and then it’s given;

greasy stone from the other side of all

Kabbalah before books the word in your mouth.

3.28 (2)

Sun is hidden but you can follow its heat

that much we know the rest from someone else:

quince you stole and never let you go.

This tree is gone but I’ve come back,

to green hills coronet from a broken window,

so much for metaphor I’m in love with

the old brick, no relief for a wandering

womb. There’s a rollercoaster in my chest.

Someone left these images and I have to

live them through. Poetry is the lost and found

the cat grips my head the door in your shoes.

3.28.16

Sunset behind the clouds leaves and

leaves here its saline sharp blue bridge

to the sea. Heaven sealed up and sealed

up in us, crystal gazing the town blue:

we’re back in Morocco, back where color

knows, blue of every door folded in your

whitest sheets. Hold your shadow’s breath

up the cool alleyways nothing to distract you.

3/27

What did we have before we wrote the book

late Mazdaists early Christians crunching

across chalk and flint, what does that smell like?

What was the last event, demanding to be hidden,

written out, written off, when there was only door

anywhere? Door and chalk and no history

the expressive body my hands a pit of fish sauce

only the images we give each other.  When the book

is over it’s empty again. The sun comes out

a man hollers from the beach. Hungry fishermen

button up their jackets and swim back to shore.

3/26/16

You’ve learned to listen so there’s nothing left to do

these were once thoughts now it’s pear juice up your sleeve.

Easter discoursing heart walks out from the cave of mind:

intention is a subtle fire

when the world’s over cows standing round the field,

the last body still burning ambles past her sycamore.

Why is the future always late?

That’s an auspicious question friend, 

if he comes he’ll ask you for a piece of bread; 

or just look, look around, it's our reckless way of being born.

Yet more songs 1

Oak. Tone. A sky of wood.

Rings. Body. Thick steps.

Near choked in silence.

Full. Full-up. The Prima Materia.

All of it Matter. All of it here.

Now. The body strokes. A bell.

Body in wood’s body. Rings

Rings out through all. Calling.

Calling. Who?