Tuesday, March 10, 2009


this young man rummages through your
top drawer, fingering knickers, bras,
personal things I used to fold, put away

in that cloudy dark universe I painted.
to sleep you sang through insomnia.
and sunny days began to slip

into hunted nights. no longer owl
but snake busy chasing tail.
you’ve left behind

the blue moon bedroom,
the soprano bow with its quiver,
the hounds and heart pumping

deer. dryads are simple,
fragile, easily burned like mist;
tattooed by men and felled

with rings carved around their trunks.
at the edge of every limb, roads
with racing cars, gun shots,

mutilated virgins, crumbling temples.
and consider these forests: they have never
been forever. not the way you think

they should be. but, sit
upon your own scale
if you can find it.

in their own way,
sirens have always been
beautiful. still. stride your night;

sing down sailors;
or fade like your temple.
but, look before you cross.

NOTE: My daughter just broke her other wrist after completing rehab for the first broken wrist. I trust her to choose wholeness.

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