my cup of flowers

my cup of flowers is the full weight of you

wet with your ancient tears

I will eat you when I wake and drink

this tea to return to the floated mind

of your dream

                        without hands or eyes

we will walk together through burnt fields

in the polarized autumn light

                                                through

memories of love that was almost love and

nascent beauty that became this grace

                                                my cup

of flowers hums with your voice          briefly

you held my face against your throat

                                                another breast

for me to cling to

                        to enter love through

                                    to add my ancient tears

to.

the clock is weightless

the clock is weightless in my attention

I write to you               you seem to care

your clock moves you from one spot

to the next

            it is no longer celestial time

in you it becomes dimensional

                                    fractured time

                                                duration

he once asked you

            -how long did we fuck-

and you knew

            -almost eight minutes-

dressing as you spoke rushing

around the shifted bed

take some time to write me back

                        my letter ended

yesterday        on my phone

your apology

                        in so many words.

being following

being following

becoming

                        the

cascade of many

years into radiance

how dream settles

into song

into

stillness          

how when

the wheel settles

            it throws your

unexpected shadow

on the half-lit world

and now the world

on your wheel

turns.

I agree

I agree

with you Cid

I am old

enough now

to want for-

bidden things

old enough

to take in-

ventory

small storage

of years of

wants and needs

like boxes

damp in the

underground

chewed by mice

forgotten

until you

Cid       opened

the doorway

down    and I

descended

for nothing

but to see

the rotting

foundation

I’m built on

to see where

my poet

eats sleeps and

operates

to watch him

drag the hose

between fuel

tanks   from the

rusted out

libido

over to

another

I never

knew of.

she like the

she like the

hydrangea in

its color speaks

the soil of her

history

            arthritic

roots to opal-

escent blooms

of her eyes

the       wells

of her resig-

nation.

The Ferryman

even now

a ferryman will take you across this

low wide river

for when you choose

but gently

payment should pass gently as alms

to the muddy quartz-fisted anchorite

listen as the throats of            the river ring

his shrouded water-bell

                                                see how

the sun shines through and hides his milky

cataract eye

where the river drains into and out

of him

this flooded pearl of cascading water

erupts in the moonlight like datura

                                                the blooming eye

a bulging spool

that winds and unwinds a silver thread

for what you might hesitate to offer.

with no loss

with no loss

of words

the cynic’s prayer

concludes:

the story is simple

birth(intermission)death.

to be so concise

            a meteorite

to isolate with words

the cynic prays

to a dissolved self

molecular

beyond belief.

Standard Tuning

I have ghosts of myself still in my mouth

their whispers inked on her breasts    and she

dreams of a wedding-funeral

            ceremony for the exchange of selves

of ghost for ghost.

cut the tree

cut the tree     they say

and we cut until

the massive bone shatters

and shouts a river’s thaw

another sixty years uncarved

at our feet       unguarded

by the incredible height

                        now length

our decisions consistently

making these conversions.

in this house

in this house    sleep

is restless

            another chore

to add to the list

                        we wake

sore on the rocks

of our mountainous

dreams

            cramped by

damp weather

and shearing winds

                        we wake

as if dropped

into a thicket of scalding

wild rose

            the uncommon

world in its orange dawn

and open mouth pulls us

to our feet

            back to our bodies

back again to the lists

inscribed in the metal

and brick

of our belongings.

just as red

just as red

tailfeather falls to

the ground

                        from flight

                        or perch

                                    ship / wreck

                                                in air

freelance weight eased through

                                                currents

                        cradled

adjust

ments

            to bird

                        lessness.