Orion falls

Orion falls back
into a wave of clouds
with his dogs thrashing behind him
eternally--he flails
across the night sky
at the outlines of star-beasts
and never grows closer
--his heart beats, now
at the pulse of the universe
and he runs at the rate
of the slowest of nebulas
until his glowing components
should veer off, at last
away from each other--and tear him apart

the goddess is gone now
with a grunt and a snort and a shake
of her head
she walked away down the shore
more than three millennia ago
and left you in the still darkness
with the empty patterns of your desire

it's late...

remember when you were new?

if you were to kneel and spread your eyes

then the moon would come down--to rest between them

surely--the wind carried words

your ears could not hear

spoken in the groping language of your skin

and you read with your nose

winter coming in the mountains and

the light on the pavement, that cracked

that crumbled long before your tongue was born

--surely the bamboo hissing

was closer to you than your blood

and your blood hissing, echoed

the great fizzing roll of the streets

and struck it clean, like voices on stone

surely--surely, you yourself were

a dusty ikon, sharp as the hills

and flung out like the fronds

snapping, in the breeze

and the dusk gathered, and rose

not the dark falling

and sitting so heavy

surely--once you could

sprawl across the night

easy--

rather than clutching yourself

hunched over with the shadow falling

over your shoulders,

and your neck bared

surely you will swing the world

around your shoulders again

and walk

with it swinging around your legs

with it lapping at your feet

surely--surely

you will be sprung open

the echo in your ribs again

they said in 2003...

which was seven years ago

these things smash

like water from a vase

like a wave on the sloping shore

and the air uncaring

the avaricious sand

pull the water, bared

into themselves

leave the shells

and fragments, the curling

drifts of kelp

drying slow, under the humming flies

leave these things lonely

under the hard shimmer of the sun

and the buzzing lights

they said--and the world hummed

absentmindedly along

they said--and were saying

they say differently now

and the crack

of voices, but it would shatter

and the echoes die

The Shape of Steam

Part of a poetic dialogue with Aria: number three in response to this excellent one here.

Back to you, my friend.

---

The Shape of Steam

steam is smoke

who can hold the shape of smoke?

they cannot measure

its motion

the lazy moisture hangs

under the branches

and licks the leaves

or shoots upward, spinning

itself against itself

until the still attenuates

its grasp

--so the clouds

that press the cold into the ground

and the streetlights across the asphalt

and catch their glow, a little

is the running ghost of steam

gathered up in flight

from other fires

a vast and arching herd--

rushing and rustling

in the nearer fields of the sky

and I would silence

the porchlight--to hear them better

with my eyes

I would still the lamp

and climb the stairs in darkness

to hear their echo

on the edge of the window

I would stand in the chill

shoulders hunched

head drawn upward

what is the warmth, the fever

-bright sheen

of the glass

to this slow, glowing migration?

what is left of the fire:

these banked and rolling vistas

prove the spark

that strikes in the shadows