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