cx.

the mountains dark arms open
blue grey twilight glowing cool and bright above them
lamps above shadowed buildings, at the entrance
gleaming by the slope

in the parking lot still and quiet, breeze
whisking a few leaves across the dark gray asphalt

the light pooling across the lines
warm and golden behind the screen
moving behind the counter
     kids running around the tables--

so the night's like a coat,

      --at the corner, he's wearing feathers and stripes
         for Samhain--

I made a ghost-list
to list my dead,

the name and date, I remember them
      --briefly, each
I think well of them
and I hope they're well

the soft burnt scent of summer falling to fall
hangs over the cement
the sliver moon and one star hanging next to the radio tower
the lights, cupped, gleam across the brick wall

the headlights streaming slowly
across the intersection
streaming steadily above the divider
the street makes a living altar of the night

cviii.

the moon rides the night sky, rolling to full
I think you're a bird and
you fly elsewhere, over wave
through wind, across mountain

peaks, arrayed like waves

we here below walk, sideways
the day is a dancer, moments
leap and kick, roll in a circle
arms spinning,

across the sidewalk, over the
asphalt,

some moment it will kick out
to where waves are,

where walking is and where flying
are the same place, woven
and weaving through time,

if things fall over, and roll out
of rhythm, into another

turn over each other, it's true
that it's all one movement,

far peaks and far skies, tableland
spread beyond the checkpoint,
dwarfs the arches

rivers glowing in the grassland
late summer, waves breaking

against the near shore, past
the horizon,

waves crashing in the mind only
through the snow-blocked passes
in the dark,

walk the wind blowing in from some
other coastline,

fly the wind rising across the line
from somewhere
beyond us

between the darkness, all winds
are the same wind,

if we are blown out and off course

into other places, all places are one
time, and in one wind,

dance together.

cvii.

when the winter came, some froze
and they fell

of those who fell, some crawled
forward, and some

were still, and silent--streaming elsewhere

the crack of bone on asphalt is
a thud, when someone

hits the ground,

the shatter, and falling
shards that fade into
the dust

and scrub

or the gutter,

of the shrapnel and scrap metal
some is salvageable

and some is not--the storm rolls
in over the cliffs,
waves cracking on the shore

stars bright in the inky night
trees snapping,

blows the plaza over the edge
--lost to the sky

over the valley, palms cracking

the snow comes in over the mountains
a gray wave rolling, cold

wind, ice on the road,

of those that crawled, some went
shambling, gathering scrap

through the burning summer,
the haze and rain of fall--

grinding, sometimes, or weaving
               and stumbling,

standing,

until the engine grinds, and rolls
over, somehow the piecemeal
chasis holds,

the freeway way thunders, close
but muted

as the clouds come down, the frame
shudders but holds,

shaking and shifting, it rises
along the
asphalt, the peaks crack

and the sky breaks, the wind
howls under the tires, or
the sky does,

kneel, briefly, to check the chains
for traction

scrap and sheet, pieced and gathered
shaking, rumbling, is sound
runs grinding,

at elevation, running clear
and at speed,
in the winter, though a storm

c.

the shore is a cathedral
cracks in the sky
light the stucco, and the cliffside, and the palm
trees to living glass
cut by the soft foliage on the rockface

the moon cut by rafters and pines
is holy
over the water

the moon caught in the clouds
high over the building, the smoky night
is an icon

the past strays into the future
the breathing wire
the past rings into the future like a
heartbeat, humming
like the crack of a breath on teeth
like the sight of air leaving the
throat
       cast back into the sky
  over the shoulder

these days are passed
these days have passed so that
the days to come may ring with their passing

cvi.

this place, these people--chattering under the lights

leaning against the slats, 

the mountains to the left, thunderheads glowing on the snow

may all the spirits bless this place--

these bright children, these busy citizens

walking through the city, bustling down the freeway

down by the road--under the overpass

in the shade

the sun shine bright but not sharp, 

come down upon you through the branches

the mountains hold you, just under the sky

---

the fear came to you, and you did not know

but you live, though--you are living still

you don't need to fear, I will hold you

and my grasp will not fail you, and my grip

will not falter--

if I swing you forward--you carry me forward, 

and we will go, we will all go forward, 

together--across the line, 

not one less, and not one missing

cv.

the leaves, wet to the asphalt
are shards
of the broken lens--scattered
wreckage, remains of a broken
city, sweeping lightly
in the shadows, under the tree,

the green and glowing, dappled
grass, wind hanging and
whisking across the water, under
the branches, the hum

of the fountain, the sky clear and
bright, shored against the
peaks, who hold the wind until
it slides under them, the

end of it, caught in the water, then
rippled, breaks--the apocalypse
came to ground where the freeway
hums, and the stars pricked

the inky night, and burnt out in the
sun rising over the dry hills,
and fell caught in the buildings, in the
branches hung over the water--in
the grass, green and glowing,

the wreckage and ruin, whisking along
the root and weeds, flowering,
sharp and sweet--the world ended, and
the leaves whisked past it,
and the day turned, and grew, went
spun, grew spinning, past it

civ.

what you eat, and what you breathe
is in bone,
in time, over distance, unsurrendered,
if someone tells you who you aren't

they cannot deny the quiet logic
layered minerals
explain to vein and sinew that
they cannot be sundered

except that it falls to nothing
pools, starkly

the dispersed material will not
remake the world

ciii.

gather those things,
are leaving,

the thin tissue of myth
gossamer, flying

for fingers, crossing
empty air,

the sky beyond them,
blue or shaded and thick,
click a beat

caught in the ravines, invoke
time in the sun,
city-streets far away, the past
in the mind

cii

if the sun burns in blooms on the dog-wood
and the lamp hung halfway in the branches
lights them, and glows--then I can say
I'm happy to remember,
fare well where you're going

ci.

worn half-down to the bone, the man
leans against the marble

walls of the elevator, how's it going
down there?, I ask,

it's bizarre, he says, and touches a dry
palm to the gray skin of

his forehead, I've never seen anything like
it, it's just surreal, you know?

I can see how you'd say that, I nod, if you're
right in the thick of it, trying to produce

something out of it, the door opens, and
he trudges out into the flickering

light of the hallway, muttering, slumped
still walking, there's a bravery in that

greater than bold-faced cheers, and
colliding visions, greater than a thousand

hands raised to clutch the sky, to clutch:
the carpet with your feet, and walking,

is braver than a thousand voices raised
to fill the roof and square, than feet

in any street you can think of--the quiet
scuff of tired and still walking, pared

down, still thinking, gray-faced and no
sky, the whispered shush to shatter

the fragile violence of vision, the faltering
roar of unmet desire, if you swing it right

flex your knee, hands in your pockets, wise
or weary, you can grind the world that grinds,
shrieking, to halt

lxxxxix.

the hard buds line the branches,

late--the air melted, 

already, and rushes across

the concrete, through the avenues,

and circles by the steps,

this year, spring clutches close

watches gamely, but

huddles like the snow's still

down, firmly

waiting to release its hold

on itself, some wild logic

driven down from the mountains

to catch the catch, 

and turn it, clasping, flung 

over the basin

lxxxxviii.

when the dawn creeps down across the basin
pale, and the chill air
is still

the light crawls across the asphalt, and promises
warmth, in a little while--
the pale green patches of grass and the frost

glow slightly, and the air is sharp,
with the dark bulk of the mountains grounding
the far side of the valley,

shadowed and tall

lxxxxvii.

break the road across the mountains,
tear it across the washes and the slopes will
fall, always, slowly into gravel, spinning
in the wheels, and clattering to the shoulder,

shadows fall and hold in the crease where
the land rises, and in the dry stream-beds,
flow quiet along the asphalt, the hazy lights

at a cross-walk, by the cluster of houses, in the
chill, fog on the headlights burning
sharp across the divide, blinding the dark
close ahead, sundering the road from
the night--but the black roll rising

ahead of them, the deep blue above them
promises the road continues long past
them, threads dark and unceasing, clear
carries long beyond them