She wove in wind
and I could only watch
as her hair flowed like a swift river
about her face
and her hands knew the fibers’ story
before the finish.

When she started to sing,
it was a low keening meant for ancient stone
before the sacrifice.
She had no questions
as there was no quest better than now.

She shifted in growing dark
but there was no hesitation
in step or purpose
but an awareness of form.

So very small
in my castle
but I can hear Lou singing
about giving it away…
the sound is nearly drowned
in a chest-heaving staccato breath
worthy of vaudeville.
So sure am I
that sun will marry moon
there is little worry
about being swept away by currents;
it’s more a fear of tripping in a tide pool
that has me frozen
in front of the sushi bar.

This worn Samsonite will not be savored
by guérillas in moonlight.
A week of lit ferns
took a pinch of kosher salt
to make a comfortable nest before the break
(in which a tomb-like quiet descended,
calming but for the most irascible eggs).
Carrying on without a handle
as best as I can with nary a hook or pincher,
I decry grey twill and welcome post-rage
somersaults as I add layer upon layer
of raw sugar (in-leaf), begging for
reprieve even as my legs push past
the buckle of freedom,
a little smashed but warm like carnival dirt.

He did me no favors
when he stripped the landscape smooth,
neglecting to mention the importance of insurance
(which turns out to be a myth).
For a moment, I thought I’d die
in the the face of such worldly concerns
as stuffed mattresses and plastics
but there are few deductibles in heaven
and fewer bonuses in hell;
saving up all your nuts in a tree
distracts from the simplicity of replication
and the necessity of groovy dance.

Moth balls and plastic grass
hold a childhood summer day
in its musty cellar
with coffee rings and aprons
ready to embrace on the settee.