The season gives up
its last gifts under hushed moon
light and sworn in whispers,
sealed with stars, new
alliances are made. The moon aches
for earth and orbits
her curves, disturbing her
waters from afar from under
a shadow veil.

You are here with me, a silent
presence hangs between us while
the fields give forth final grain
and gourd

to lay down in waiting for the death
of winter's hard hand to brush
their eyelids closed and turn their bounty
back into earth.

And moon, a dark stone
whose borrowed splendor hides
a hollow song, glides
over, never closer,
his eternal dance of solitude
illuminating some night threshing

and our still hands never touching

It's a Motherfucker.

Memory Man you make yourself
comfortable in the darkness beside me
your weight and scent unwelcome
and you reach--

stretch to my side while I read, slithering
your greedy arms around me searching
and defiling my respite,

your creeping fingers play
upon my neck as I pull the bow searching for song,
I find only hollowness and wanting
as they slip
softly around and constrict.

I curse you and excise your spirit
but you return in the dead quiet
with gin on your breath and sigh
into my ear, silencing my call

Running a rake through sand--

swirling furrows and circles the point

is not to revelate but to be found

In getting lost. The movement, a repetition

Impresses memory on the sinews,

a comfort new and old like first and last

breath and the wind of living

Sun bleaches the grain, leaves

pollute the media.  I stoop to finger each,

And fold into pockets filled with debris.

40dysnthdsrt
wllmkychs
mrages&ls
yrwy

Flood

Slipping off into the fortieth night of sleep(less)

off-balance bed. A world of empty

over which I am the queen. The moon sees

as I warm to my own heat; the nights pass

and days follow--a silent spending off

of days, like water on stone, boring a hole.

Perfect with no edges, smooth, defiant of expectation:

a refinement. but the madness!

of the wearing remains unbearable.

my fingers quiver with the heartquake

that comes at sunrise

and at sunset-- the dripping rain

upon my heart; a flood. Forty

days and forty nights. The sea swells.

Drunkish origami: hard to
line up clean,
predictable, symmetrical folds
and creases: intentions and
results. The white shows.
Sometimes the white of the inside
shows! and destroys
a pristine presentation.

Gripes and sighs into the Darkness.
Folded. (Not) neatly
tucked up and filed off
with 32 living and ten-
thousand buried.

You may be among them.
But you are not. Dead.

The Story of the Crane Woman

It is true that in the beginning he loved her and healed a mortal wound; that when she was vulnerable he took her into his home and gave her rest and love and comfort.

And that is how a crane came to give up her wings and roost with an earthbound sail maker, becoming his wife and living with her heavy human feet bound to the earth. Bare of her splendorous and downy garments, she grew together with her love, made a home with him, replacing the comfort of her lost feathers with his body and learning to sing to the thumping sound of her fleshy feet and solid bones which trod daily over floorboards, forest floors, and mountain paths.  And so the sail maker, who thought he knew something about the wind unwittingly fell into love with the spirit of a great bird and the great bird who knew nothing of the earth knowingly loved the soul of a human man.

They thought that love would save them but the woman was of the wind and sea and the man of the earth and wood. Feeling their time unraveling the woman chose in desperation to reach into her deepest secret and give freely of her very essence to save them.  Shut up behind a screen, she began the undoing of her silken feathered soul, pulling all the wind and light from her heart to weave into resplendence a great gesture of love for the sail maker, who profited and became happy by her sacrifice.

In time the sail maker grew rich and enjoyed praise and fame for the sails made of her soul while she quietly withered in her unwinged, earthly body.  He didn't notice when she stopped singing and careless in his comfort,  neither did he perceive her cold and thinning skin as she wound herself in blankets under moonlight.

In his ignorance, the sail maker betrayed her. The shroud around the suffering crane was broken away.

Mottled, and bleeding at the loom, a great bare heaving creature beat her wings for freedom and in the defiance all her splendor returned. As though she had never left it, she took wing, returning to the sky.

She never returned, her long life with the man on earth becoming a dream that belonged to another world.