All My Blue Januaries
Three of the last minute Januaries sent me
backwards, dead father. What is there that shines
from another day? Night breathes, saturated
with nevered emptiness, cracks language
into a circle of Sundays. The sun
was something we managed.
Blue-roaming blood, a noose is a necklace
you never got out of. I don’t want stars.
Ash is not light. The story is there—
dream-cornered. Leave the necklace
unclasped for the dead. The river has your hands.
Inside Us a Bird Called Home
When the nearing nows, inner rings
So much growth standing still.
Sometimes a ghost slips into your
bloodstream, a plum-black abstract
with wildcats stalks.
Sing before pain.
The hour dusks a slow brief bloom.
Spirits bridge, the vanish—
Time-divided moths shake-shiver, silence.
Behind this bandaged path, sun maps. Gone
moonflower, maple artist, Florida
berries, the knowing baker, blown-over
dandelions with wanting faces.
View original post 351 more words