He has a long cool stride
and eyes like giant pools of deep space,
where stars leave smoky trails
like the mist in the hills
he brushes past
on his way to see the dragons.
He knows every dragon song
and all I’d like is to hum a bit with him
as we stroll through a widening night,
trying to avoid being burned
or falling off the edge of the planet.
I think he knows secrets, like
how hope is a myth
like an echo of a dragon song.
Swinging
Those were dancehall days,
at 2am between brick buildings
with all the light focused outward
while we hid behind clear glass.
What could they see?
Wild smiles and disheveled spirits,
thumping it up against the old desk,
knocking over the banker’s lamp
in our zeal for excess and music.
Those were days of harried flight,
the crushing weight of pain
tipping the full cup of youth
until we spilled all over the floor-
a syncopated bubbly mess.
Soaring
Wondering how the gangly grace
of a heron calls to me,
I watch the feathers scratch the sky.
The lines spell a quiet redemption
but my sins are wider than this valley.
A stark yearning comes with dawn,
a deep screaming blue.
I want to watch him draw, move,
rake his mark across sunrise-
pale night fading from my skin,
light bursting through the trees
and over the water.
I think we could make the shape of grace
if we could brush wings a little as we fly.
The Word Rummager 