And The Record Skipped

(Close-up of unidentified Rothko)

Intimacy lives
in that band 
of skin

above a man's
collar

beneath the
draw of his
barber's blade
   
Where Summer's
burn slides

into a white
Winter bed

And in the passage,
a woman's Fall

100 Words

In her mind, they meet in a clearing, conscious of the cliché, but captured all the same by the beauty of their bodies beating in the sun, the electricity swimming on their swollen tongues, awareness dipping into some peasant fold, so that he moves—and she moves—and they move—as leaves move.   

Like a bird she will dive into his mouth. 

And oh, the sky, and aye, the clouds, and yes to the weight of his body being on her own, yes for the felt and fleeting clutch of an immortal light, in all this blood between the legs.  

Taxiing

All week long,

I've left words 
alone,

and they seem fine

out there 

on their own

Exchanging my pen

for a Nikon lens

and the sawing at clarity

for the sensory swing 

of encountering a thing,

before shooting it

still

I like the beautiful things

more than I like the true things,

but I like the beautiful, true things

most of all  

And that is a photograph's
exquisite appeal,

being all right 
there,

magnified and married
at the speed
of light     

While words have to

struggle--

always this struggle--

and always upwind, 

us and them jawing 
to get our gears
to bite

Starting, 
then stopping
before finding--

blue

2 Red Chairs

Let's sit here all day,
not speaking 
of things

for things 
have a way
of pulling 

loose strings,
when what I want 
is to extend

my two legs,
and maybe reach 
for your knee

and lean 
just like the 
shadows do

Elevation

The church bells rang
and the cardinals flew

An altar of blood 
keeping the two

Safe across the 
city's walls

Until their final 
dying fall.

And later, the violin 
player starts 

and fails
to make a woman

from gut and hair,
of air and longing

but I'll give him points
for trying.

For Love,
what is deeper

than Death
but You? 

And how weak the word
that wants Your flesh

but bends before
such broken bread.

Deleted

Summer's Prayer

come on, some one

some thing

some where

Deleted

Green

How many shades of green are you?
How many shades am I?   

Every birthday is a balancing 
and a reckoning
and a chance to 
proclaim:

I will stay as
earnest as the child
pushing her stick
into brackish waters
in order to make 
all the waves 
that I can 

Longing to hear
the leaves of my trees
whistle and tremble
in a rapt applause

as light breaks free 
of its chain of clouds

and I teeter
on the wings 

of a beautiful 
fall


Where does the water stop
and the cloud begin?

Where am I in here?  

More & Less

I learned to love
contradiction
from you.

Oh, not directly. 
We never ventured
into such abstract country.
(There were landscapes 
and portraits to see.)

But nonetheless, 
it came down to me 
in drips and drabs:

the unbearable strain
of loving 
while letting expectations 
be.

And now I'm trying 
to walk that line.
Whether you believe this or not, Mom,
I'm a goddamn contortionist here.
Inching my way
along the seams:

That love can be true,
if also a lie.

That love is blind,
recording all.

That love deforms
in its wish to 
preserve and to
protect.

I let it get to me.
Too much, I bet. 

I am still such 
a child, see. 

Yours.
And not. 

And you are my mother.
But you were someone else, first.

We are still trying here.

And maybe that's enough.  

Maybe that's as much
as we can hope to ask. 

Because I have this horrible feeling,
that if I tried any harder--

I could break us both.