nearly night

storied buildings

all spelled out in

their nighttime of city

meet the running road.

the maps of our hearts

run with it,

into the night and

the trees and the dark hills.

it's always going forward,

wherever we're going...

Origin

Wind, when

you come you

become the

voice of leaves.

Your rests

give more weight

to your words,

which are the dreaming

of all the trees

you speak with.

Your hands

move easy

among nighttime,

the stars and

the ground conspire

there, softly

gardening by moonlight.

In the open

grass trembling,

you’re fast to find

the woods again-

the tongue and teeth

of your thoughts

form sentences

that bell and sound

between dark branches;

they tell the story of

the earth and sky,

lingering,

waiting for the sun

to come and quiet them.

"to too long ago"

Long walks

slip away into songs

I POUR OUT INDIGO

stolen nights

(dark effervescent glow

fades to unmapped interior,

to those solitary wolveseyes)

intoxicate me-

as if,

starting out a storytime of

life and death, etched in

perilous heartbeats as if

our memory had formed together-

in rhythms spoken too long ago,

singing made long answers to even longer ago,

to when rocks dripped

in clouded formations and

formless mountaintops danced alongside

 

a storm that's always threatening,

among the orbits of their eyes                                                                                    

stolen dreams and wrinkled stories                                                                              

line the waves and valleys                                                                                           

they cross.  and their words were                                                                                   

echoes of things they'd never seen,                                                                                  

assembled fragments of a world made                                                                               

from magazines, a collage they put together                                                                        

telepathically, in plain site of alligators                                                                            

and moths beating their tails and wings                                                                               

against the paper walls that keep them                                                                                 

bathed in tepid light from day to night

and unseen.

                                                                                                                                      

                  just wild mazes,                                                                 

                      to be lost in-    

                                                                                                                                                                                       

a mirror's stretched above the din of the ocean's                                                                 

crash, and catches the light in droves about its silver-rimmed glance...                                  

you seem to gleam yourself in half-spoken sentences,                                                       

in instants of selflessness,                                                                                            

a sandy beach scattered with years,                                                                             

and around the ocean lies your deep breath,                                                                       

one after another, sign of life, the maker your hands                                                     

the shape of the fingers trees resembles, it

speaks, with all the force of tides, with

the weight of skies and sky-scattered stars and

wavy lines.  It rides

a stiff breeze,

til the oceans end,

and time descends the plateaux of thoughtful

rhymes.  My heart skips

a beat.  It's a forest of glimmers,

of half-eaten leaves and the light they've loved,

of the lingering scent of fur brushed by a treetrunk's

stolid watch through the dampness of the morning.        

                                    

magic

do you dream in rain?

or in flowerformed colors

made to shake the rain from

the pivoting of soaked palm fronds

dancing in the wind?

is it spoken with forgotten tongues?

nuzzled or danced or sung?

hardly begun,

cryptic and

illogical

and wept through canyons

that transform you into

something limitless...?

or never over?  aching unending that

crisscrosses your body,

until our ancient hands envelope the globe,

making a sail with curling fingers.

dovetail love into figures of infinity,

candlelight and soda straws strewn

in the wide-open country,

an offering to hawks, to insects and air

Tiempo

Five petalled creature

in the sun,

six leaves turning

in the wind,

effortless teeming oceans'

currents connect

and web out,

careening softly

and senuously against

the sandy ocean bottom,

the wild peaks of

icy mountains;

the nodding bliss

of wild marshes,

the bottom of

the sandy desert.

Agaist each other,

the ocean fanning,

the tree blooming-

the world is

making love to itself

today. 

the solar flare

telescopes and microscopes

eye the every detail

recorded in the ever-

patterned pattern

they create or discern.  They’ve

begun to see

the edge of every time

that ever stopped

to pause or each

animal walking in desert

or woods that stops

to drink a drop

of water and to think

boldly their eyes are

glass and their ears shells.