...xxxxxix.

and the rain fell on the just
and unjust like

the feet fall on the roof
shuffling, whispering--

and below, the cords twine
over the floorboards,

the lights hang on the hills
like a beacon, you know

sometimes they shower
sparks on the street,

they don't die, but
they fade,

along the gutters, in the
lee of the grove,

the branches whispered the
constellations, falling

and the street, glowing
hazed and hot,

and the shape of the wind
under the branches

loosed from the trunks and
branches, needles

falls into the street, whips
over the asphalt,

toward the hills, seems
to say, "hold"

"hold, for you
will live,

for you will live
again," and

goes, the shadow--

fell and spread across
the pavement,

and covered, but I watch
my shadow fall,

down the wall, and I say,
"you will live,

and you will live, you
will live again,"

epitaph

in stone, the water would
run, through
the tip and fall,

the rain would carve
your name

into the world, and
seep,

to the ground. in
words,

caught, I will not
stay you,

though, you fade,
live briefly,

as you go, to raise
the grass.

stage

When--the sawdust falls
through the sun, and the
radio plays--this song,
in particular--

and the wood hangs against
the wall, the office in the loft,
is dark, and slats

of metal over the loading dock,
are raised, the screws sink,
into the pine, imprecisely--

the stage is still, but won't be
in a few days, and the dirt
clings to my hands which are
sinew--

--with lifting, the strange slats
stacked on the platform over
the scroll-saw, and the welder,
and steels lies, traced in paint,
and dust, on the concrete--

--the leftover scenery, cut and
shortened, repainted--
will make a new world, for
an evening--beyond the loading

dock, the lilac are blooming,
but in here, I will cut a beak,
into plywood,

tomorrow it will break your
heart, today
the curtain rustles, slowly,
in the heat

xxxxxviii.

--tonight, the wind blows
and it rests in the hollows, and it sneaks
behind the buildings--and,
tonight--

tears all that was--
before, and all that would have
been--across my bones,
their hollows whistle--tonight,

I loose my hold, and I let it
carry--there are worse things
than not to have been--carry,
all the things I have held
tightly--

take them from me, where--
I don't mind, take them to
nowhere in particular, or

lose them in the gutters,
and the planters and beneath
the tracks--

and they go,
and they flee, and they
scatter--

and they go, I am
glad

xxxxxvii.

unseen, we fall from

shadow,

dropping softly,

into the street,

down from the eaves,

their truncated

tracing of the alleys,

side-streets,

fall, into the culverts

discarded,

from the near sky.

xxxxxvi.

The exile, waiting:

            along the brick walls, I

watch the dark,

            running,

down to the street, to run

down to the river.

Someday, I will lose

my name,

            and the name that

was given me—

--but I will not, forget.

in the dark, and the drums click

deep in the beat, but

someday: I remember the streets

dark with water, deep

with earth, in their constellations

minerals, between them—

the window breaks the carpet

into sections,

I will not forget, though, I go

into sections,

xxxxxv.

rain in the desert
comes,

--tumbling into the valley

I do believe that water hanging

from the sagebrush

knows more of God than I do,

I do believe, the pines rising

in the rocks

know more of Heaven--

with the water pooling

in their roots--

I do think of the northern cliffs

sometimes, I do think

of falling—the lights

fall down into the gutter, and

the whole of history

is written in the asphalt,

cracked—and they run heavy

pebbled, and bright—

and the thundering--footsteps

(she walked into

the sea, like the lady

into the reeds, and that the ukulele

was missing, is the only saving

grace-)

a slender grace, this one, a slender

edge, a tenuous beat,

on the sidewalk, and a shallow

hope, certain, the film of water