de profundis

--how much darker?--
the place which isn't anywhere,
threading the hallways,
between the houses, on wires--
cast up, like a hand,
to the sky--

the space unbound, unwoven
how much deeper?--
a scream might sink forever,
in the ever-changing chasms--
race forward-- ever-falling,
un-echoing.

it is dark beyond the windows--
I see only my reflection.
--the thick stucco--
but the walls within it,
beyond it-- much thicker, much closer
up against my throat

--this sliver,
to press lips against it,
slit. From the soft dark,
my throat--
a brush of air--
and rush forth,
into the greater darkness

shadows

In Venice-- I was a boy
was a bird
was a ghost
-- wandering the not-streets,
chasing the own
corridors of my mind.

In Los Angeles-- I was a girl
was a peddler
a traveler, the Jew
was a snail
--pressed under myself
my home, everything else
flat against the sidewalk.

In Beijing-- was nothing
a map, a mural
a notion
the doves who weren't there
--flew high,
the water in the canals rose
after them into the smog.

--was everything, there,
in the streams, the trees
filled the hills like light--
illuminated myself.
I was space not surface
--what did my hands do?,
when I was there,
--there was no shadow-play,
in that old place,
I can't name it.

Santa Ana

... so we've got a wind-advisory, then. Makes me wonder, a little, exactly what we should be doing to, uh, "secure ourselves"... from the wind...?

---

snaking,
the twigs whipping
the rustling howl,
the trunks waver
passes
the world is blowing.

rushing,
the sloping rooftop
the empty sidewalk
--slams it.
the window cracks
against the frame,

the world is blown

strays
through the screen
hair, papers ruffled
chill, to rest
on the carpet.

the howled passing

rustles

September 31st

A velvet sky,
and hanging lights, gold
swinging in the empty air
and soft air, with the streetlight cupped
washing down—heat the shadows
the soft burr in me, on me
arms and lungs, rubbing together
up against the night