mirror

well, all you sharded mirrors
who scatter the sky among you
who catch the moonlight, gleaming
in the corner of the room
and all the stars are fixed, if burning
and the moon, full and wide, and glowing
are either dead or burning
don't know the small, dark glory
of being undone

The Skinner's Psalm

Let my words rise
like the smoke from the stub in my hand
I have walked through thick grass
soaked up to the knees
with a load of dead things
across my shoulders
and the hum of the crickets
mocked their empty plushness
and the light glistening on the water
mocked the sun's gleam on fur
and the dried skins seemed brittle
against the damp beneath my feet
now, for once, I set down my burden
to peer up into the clear darkness
the clouds are far grander
ranging across the sky
still, I think there's some value
in the quickness of smoke
as it rises over the steps
and twirls off into the night

... .

and god bless your out-flung wings
I swear you threw the sky into my face
while you were passing
I swear I could not evade the question
as my eyes followed in your wake

dry

my soul aches, this morning
like skin tightening around a cut
the cicadas buzz in the trees
and the air hangs, dry and light
the light falls, like dust, between the shadows
whenever I reach into myself
I feel leaves and twigs crackling under the bushes

I walk, parched and dusty
and no water slakes my thirst
but leaves me chapped and itching
I rest on my frame
like leather, scraped and cured
like paper, dried and contorted
hung like a mask on the wall