not a good poem.

you're too good for poems--you know

you'll never know how many words I've wasted

trying to capture this thing

gleam, glint, shadow, echo, etc.

so I will say it simply:

that I love you as form of self-preservation

when I was more than foolish

I flung myself into your depths

and you have yet to return it

I will always be seeking you

for that reason--

around corners and at line-breaks

in crowds, fields, squares, halls, etc.

I will make you the measure of all things

for no other reason, than I will wish to find myself

if only in pieces--long after you've consigned me

to scrap,

monstrous thief--to take not my heart but my eyes

terrifyingly mediocre--like a claims adjuster

you don't know the measure of what you hold

between your fingers

who you'll kill when you turn your head

echo (ii)

the echoes are my name

you make me remember the many shades of black

the lights gleaming like lesser diamonds

glowing below the eaves

spilling over the steps

haze and glint and shadow

under the moon, half-full with promise

rolling slow down from

your dark and shadowed ranges

you--yourself--draw my eyes

to the crest of the ridge

you return me--weary traveler

who learned nothing, going

but how to return home

rolling down slowly

from the depths

you don't know--but

I have traced myself

in the glyph of your shadow

and I have traced

the shadows across your face

with the corner of my eye

and I have embraced you

with the back of my neck

wrapped you in the shirt

falling across my shoulders

into your black and shadowed ranges

I have called the name of my soul

I have you carried you in the slow swing

of my steps--never be further

than armslength, never out of earshot

the echoes are my name

... (xxvix).

just a sip

--and I'd slip away

to savor a drunken moment

a taste, the barest whisper

--and I'd reel

with an all-too-steady

sense of grace

as if I carried the firelit

faces of my ancestors--in my blood

woven in bone, every moment made

with a firepit, begging flame

a hole for spirits--like an alcoholic

I have been made,

to fall at the first swallow

(by myself, for you)

to revel steady in the

company of thirst