Where Crying Makes Sense

There is a country where
crying sounds
are all cymbal and fire cracker
no crescendo just
sound until it's not sound
and not air just --
Those sounds that drive madness
drive the mind
out of possession
with marching and matches
hands breaking themselves into
the sound they need to make
for crying to make sense
for nothing to make sense.

Oct 30, 2010

The Long Afternoon

The girl will stay small

To get bigger would be

To grow out of love

To break the seams of

The home she’s been able to console

Herself with knowing

It’s not but where else

Don’t you remember the truth

Of playing orphans or boxcar children

In the trees out of sight of the house

Don’t you remember how it thrilled

To be so close to discovering if not this

Then what was true

It was just a play just an afternoon we’d

Continue next time you came

One continuous afternoon

Dealing with the disappointments of indoors

The betrayal of evenings

That moved around us like family but

We couldn’t seem to touch

The weather was never bad enough to stop

Us playing our games to find out

What was what.

oct 30, 2010

Northmoss

Ever lost in the woods
ever washed of self
assurance, path, northmoss
the hour grows -
but still there,
under the unpatterned
shadow spindles
the drunken doily of
undergrowth and overture -
No one's there, recalling
but you seem to know
what is needed
your feet, the bending bones
the arch of them
under over (over) under -
It's not an original response
you're possessed,
you're weaving
under over (over) under.
And the lichen smells like food
the rocks like drink
you're lost, and ever lost
clean washed of yourself.

Oct 6, 2010