Gentleman Hawk

What a magnificent flight,

she thought,

watching him wheel

ahead of the gathering storm.

Does he tremble inside too,

she wondered,

with the possibility of not making it across in time?

Could he carry my words,

she hoped,

singing along with his tune

over mountains far away?

What long days,

she thought,

gone too soon

leaving her clutching just a feather.

through a cracked window


gingerly, greedily

lapping up outside dust

as it gathers on the lips

a svelte view

if you sit still

long enough,

you can see the horizon

fall away

leaving you the conductor

of a new proscenium


It was a desert

(not my first)

and how it tasted of stretched skin!

sort of briny and red…

I wonder at sleep

and if it affects the gift of mirage;

how hopes or terrors enter unbidden

when the body fights for space.

Will I have to fill myself

forever and ever?

It was a moment

when sun flickered behind a cloud

and the stoplight changed,

pushing me forward.

patterned chaos

with a hand turned inwards,
pressing hard on skin
until it’s red,
forcing a mark to be read-
does it matter if it’s accompanied
by a banjo?
can’t banjos be mournful
or is it just bagpipes?
the hand presses slowly,
as if turning
a screw.
I imagine a screw being fitted
to my heart
and I think it would be special
to feel a clockwork ticking
without wondering 
it will skip a second,
taking breath from the throat
where the right words have been lost.
I have been lost.
but all is well – so well –
with so much sky above
and all its patterned chaos.

I can be carbon-dated 

Halved over and over,
I can’t be obliterated
as my atoms keep splitting
and reproducing-
which I almost understand
(even while it gives me a headache,
I can picture my body’s renewal).I’m not sure where
memories are carried
or how spirit can be explained
with blood terminology
or atmospheric equilibrium.

Would you take half of me tomorrow?

I can’t vouch 
for three dimensions
when I feel I’m spilling over
into a fourth or fifth.

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