I bring you almonds and apricots,
fresh dates and country oranges.
You have stitched your name in
the very world around me,
I see it in every grain, every inch
of all the orchards and oceans of earth.
I think of you in each movement of the clock,
and in each moment of summer—
You’ve re-written my life, and made real
my steps down the mountain path
to the valley of wildflowers and August winds.
I will follow you anywhere,
through the hours of dim isolation,
to the other side of paradise.
You’ve called me out of the grim winter
to meet you here in the soft morning rain,
away from the others, here where we were always
going to be, in our shared silences, our own
summer of quietly spoken promises, where at last
I can touch your hands and kiss your brow,
and bring you almonds and apricots,
and put a white jade ring on your finger.
Mind of Fire
The shadow on the wall grows wings —
The shadow grows
in the empty room, always empty. I’m here,
but gone into cold
as the shadow burns on, its wings now
nothing but fire, a frigid,
a fire stretching out time—its engine
like the pinprick of a
in this deserted house, where I know nothing but
my absence, and my place in
my only home, where I began, where now
I’ve ended into
quiet—a dream an ancient blizzard had,
the one with the mind
falling in dark
down the galaxy
to a black hole.
Sink away, out
friend, even in
and in my own
I’ve ruined so many pages of my life---
dog-eared, stained, and burned them out back
in a furniture fire.
goes unfinished and unread,
neglected and left in abandoned houses
where it wilts into dusklight
and knows only graves
of the dust . . .
drain from its pages
as I become, myself, a single word
lost somewhere, wilting and withering
on the last page of a book.