cxvix.

in the haze
where the surf cracks
on the rocks,

the cliffs fall and roll,
and return,
polished

jewels scattered across
the shore,

eventually, feed the grass
and the succulents

falling down the cliffs,
at the foot of the hills,

patches of lights
knots of roads,
houses, and the range

cuts the sky, but rolling,
and the pines dip,
and roll--

the moon high, haloed,
and square of Jupiter,
Saturn,

Mars to the right, across
from them,

the world can change, on
contingency,
but not much--I'll see you

in the haze, and through it,
I'll be seeing you,
all along the surface roads,

and highways, icy wind or
dry grass, or leaves
hanging and weaving over

the line, in the chill fog,
in sun setting,
behind the dark valleys

below the spine of the
high range,

shuddering, or standing,
in the steam of the last
cup of tea, 

before entering night's
strange country,

and the glittering fringe
at it's borders,

I don't forget anything, and
why should I, anyway? 

cxviii.

the ghost will
run,

along the cement,
the ice deep

in the pavement, 
sick and gray

curves through pines
glittering,

blocks the tread

the slopes rise, dark
the sky glows
above them,

the black asphalt threads
between them

circles of light cut it,
rising, 

a temporary constellation
fleeing, flying
through the dark

falling to the valley floor.

cxvii.

the first face of power
is the hand on your throat

the second face of power
is the bone under your eyes

the third face of power 
is the shadow behind them

and in your lungs.

but the dark at the back
of your mind,

shuddering,

in your chest--and in
your mouth,
under your hands

shaking,

is the grave of kings.

the dark
under your feet,

wavering, 

in the falling ash
of whatever empire

is a curse like a prayer
to a far-off god,

spreads to meet the shadow
behind you

but a living one
is closer,

and smiles on it. 

cxvi

fire across the mountain
will not come

over the slope, the smoke
and the spirit

from the grass and brush

makes it hard to talk

to breathe, darkens the sky

rests in the lungs,

burnt and restless,

covers the road.

through the haze--the

roads blocked, and

burning,

the trees, rise dark and

thin, but

their top branches wave

above the heat, 

--the rocks glow, 

reflect flame,

the slopes rise silent

and steady, 

cant quietly up against

the gray sky,

                     the sharp

smell of fall cuts 

across them,

the threads and fragments

of some other history,

gleam on the ground,

in the dust,

the sedge is burning and

the ash is blowing,

no history is a necessity,

gather a few

cxv.

deep along the highway, where the heat presses
against the tracks,

hazes around the old clapboard buildings, and
the green verge,

the grassy slope says you've come east enough
to leave the desert--

--trying to find something to grip, it
blows through your fingers.

the sunset casts light across the canyon
and the hills that
the freeway runs through, a broad line
of asphalt, wide as plaza--

--but empty, the shadows rise and the lights
twinkle, high up, and it feels
like a room

when the freeways spreads as wide as field
where the overpasses soar in arches
it feels like a room, a driveway as long
as the coastline,

leading up to the house.

here, this is not my city, the people are so used
to hallways and offices,
the streets have grown together, the street
is a living room,

street-lamps and the lights on buildings, and
the wind blowing softly
chill and damp, a little sweet--

--stars wavering above, windows but no doors,
when they have a party,
it spreads through the city like a hallway,

if you want quiet, no matter where you go
you can hear whispered voices--

--unless you cut down into the ravine that
runs through the center,

or follow it, out to the water, and late at night
when the shadows are deep.

and me with no map, and too many
or a plan, but mostly a concept
every structure starts with an equation
every shape is found in it's failure.

cxiv.

the last time the dark fell
on the streets--

we were lit with strange fire,
moving and high,

as the roofline and low as
line in the cement,

it spread along the gutters
that bind the earth,
and illuminated them

the spark guttered
in the dark
space under the ribs

cxiii.

if the sun rises over some other bridge,
it falls on rounded cobbles
under trees, drooping, or bare
dropping leaves in the canals

mostly empty, sharp slanted sides
rising over a single boat, two
men with fishing pools

when they scoop the fish out of the mud
before the lake freezes over,
and bag them--and take them away,

I don't know where they go

on the other side of the lock I clambered over
he pounds his bare chest, and says he's eighty
each morning, he swims in the canal, in the dark
murky water--even in the winter

in the mist at the end of the great man-made lake
below the mountains, past the areas cordoned off
for military exercises--she smiles, face lined,
in a suit and bathing cap--

and slips into the freezing water.

maybe I'll live forever, since I've been cold enough
in shorts and sneakers in the winter,

along the towpath there's a construction camp, with
the trees falling green over it, in the summer--
the bicycles stream over it, where the wall spreads
onto the broad dirt road,

as the stars rise, riding down into the valley below,
shadows moving through the dark, someone starts
singing--

the villages that seem small, and stony, dusty
in the daylight--now grow larger,
in evening, rounded by the last edge of summer
in fall--in winter

the pulse fails, and then the limbs do, energy grinding
down slowly, as the sun sets, blood red
over the water, in a dark gray sky--

it's too late to turn at the t-junction,
and follow the easy way home, with night
falling quickly, the cold sharpens--

as the air starts to haze, then burn--in nose and lungs,
almost like it's vibrating, and in the irrigation ditch--

--turn back and run-down somewhere
by the construction site,
go forward and you may choke or burn out,
but the most dangerous thing is indecision--

--breathe shallowly.

--by the towpath, along the hedgerow, the water is murky
brown, topped with some black residue--that smokes
and wavers--it runs down into the fields below,

when the hedge breaks,
through the gap,
a bare parking lot and a cement building,

a lone security guard in a kiosk yells out, but a wave
and a cheerful greeting, lets him know you're crazy--
he won't bother you.

and at the bus stop on the street side, there's a line of
workers, covered in grey dust--the whites of their
eyes are yellow, their faces are lined with exhaustion,

and the stars rise over the ring-road, and the lights on
the shops gleam like darker stars, and bamboo
rustles, black through the park fence,

and the trees are tall, and the lanterns hang by the restaurant
and the gate is open, and at least it's warmer inside
than it was outside--

there's other ditches and other winters, maybe all ditches
are one ditch, unlike rivers

the cold can keep you warm,
keep you well-lit,
even when the streets are still,

--the impact comes later, shuddering
and shaking on some bright avenue
in perpetual summer.

the private cost of the past can
flicker in the deep tissue--

I know I won't live forever,
it doesn't bother me.

if you follow the ditch for a long time,
you might see small things
grow larger.

cxii.

the sky glows white behind the dark branches,

and falls gray on the carpet,

through the blinds--

--in the canyon, a magpie stands on the flat

at the rim, surrounded by sage

the black range, streaked with snow, 

it fills half the sky,

the peaks hold the sky up,

and catch it

in their valleys, hidden 

among the ridges--

I see the road rise, a thread

up through gold

into green to brown

into black,

as it rounds across the slopes,

I see it rise up 

to the gap 

until the coast pulls it across the land

I broke all of my promises except

a few I kept

but the unkept promises range ahead

and around me, like familiar ghosts

so I love them

because I love them, I take them with me 

the road is a string held up

by the sky

the mountains dangle

on it,

it promises nothing, it

makes me 

say, though:

sometime when I've spent the last night here

and seen the last dawn, 

      casting blue shadows across the slopes,

I will make something, promises unkept

streaming from my fingers

sometime after that, I will show you 

what I've made, 

      and I'll say I made this for you

cxi.

it happened sometime in the spring,
sitting on the edge
of history, watching the light stream
through the glass

alone, at a table in the entryway

the air swirling, cold
and bright
through the sliding doors

caffeine is a poor substitute
for freedom,

warmth is held inside
it bleeds easily across the tile

outside, the street is breaking, and
the buildings bend,
flaps blowing on their hollow sides

in two days, heedless storm-water
will take them down to muck,
and melt-water will carry
the verge down into the gutter

the world is always breaking itself,
and running together,
but this time it's broken open,

jagged edges listing in the grass,
catch the hard light

who knows what else is breaking,
over the rise?

--to cold air carries the green scent
of the undergrowth,

scattered bird-song, creaking traffic,
the occasional crack of cement
giving way--

faraway, there is something
worth having,
across the threshold,

the blinding daylight--it's empty, it's nothing,
farther than fear, or hope
--but held in the shape of your hands,

in the crack of your footfalls
--breaking, shattering, reaching
the arc of your stride

is the first gasp of an unknown
promise