And I will sit beside the open window

while dawn unbuttons all its dreadful light,

feeling my life drip slowly through the hour

like rainwater escaping through a crack.

Love once passed through me

like warm weather through a valley —

it shaped the land,

then went on.

One dim hour folds into another dim hour.

One disappointment closes its eyes

as its child opens its own.

One face practicing its lying

rehearses in the mouth of the next.

I have the birds not asking my name,

the sun dropping its gold into my hair—

I have this solitary, difficult, exacting thing.

I have the animal world, wild and free,

whose many faces open like an invitation:

witnesses asking for nothing back.

And then, at last, the only question

that contains all the others:

Where are you?

Oh, my life.

What a thing to finally say aloud

when the light is already dimmed,

when the window holds its own cold.

All night I work him against that taut expanse,

pigment opening like a mouth,

the wood-pressed departure of each stroke

leaving its ghost in the surface —

evidence of arrival and leave-taking

in the same gesture.

I am not waiting for it.

I have already walked into the pellucid distance

and become indistinguishable from it—

wide,

ungoverned,

finished with grief.

It seems

people have a worse time of it.

Honesty—

a losing move

Who cares she thought —

running among

the hedges of shapes,

the green of youth,

the wrestling of brocade —

A country with two right feet

cannot keep its balance.

Goodbye California with shackled ring like impending doom,

then New Mexico opened its mouth under the wide motel night—

and his hands decided the rules and the border.

In a tilting room the future went dim,

and my name was a light he could shut off.

Walk the Fire

Walk with me through cinder—

or don’t come.

On nights like this

heat runs to the blood

and it doesn’t blanch.

In love and horny,

I know, it’s corny

But:

the leaves and the trees,

the birds and the bees,

the flora and the fauna,

the heat in a sauna,

I used to party impossible summers—
white-faced cliffs with money whispering,
harbors tucked behind unmarked stones,
no clicking cameras over cheap florals—
and sea-light turning rich boats into diamonds.

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Do your eyes wake heavy—

do some mornings find them so?

Mine see a wound I did not make alone—

the wound isn’t me, or even all the world,

but hands that hide the light beneath a fate

not ours.