lxx

let the kitchen constrain
the baseboards limn
the function--

I swear I am falling

let the seconds gasp
heavily, the minutes
slow, sluggish

I swear I am falling
through the floorboards

unexpected, unwanted

for these few hours--
I am free

unwarranted, unexpected
unwanted, still--

I swear I am falling, the
cannon rolls, and

the windows shake my
reflection, I hear a roar
through the crack,

in the glass

a war deferred, still, I do
not believe--I have faith

in the roar, and the roll
far off, I believe

in the horror, the crowd,
the seconds delineate,

unwanted, unexpected, unwarranted
I am free for just this one moment,

I believe, in this one moment,
unwanted, I believe

I am falling, in just this one moment,
the baseboard limn, the windows
constrain--

reflection, the kitchen limns, I believe
I am falling--

lxxi

seizes the night, and lets it
go--surely

the moon, over the hills,
holding, if

the street widened, fell
momentarily,

I would walk, tired and
aching,

below the shadow of that
light, leading

(the bamboo hums)

I would shudder, by the
large window, shuddering

in the window, towards the
the light falling

(the bamboo gasps, falls
forward, rustles)

across the walk, I would lay
below the balcony,

(hisses, whispers, rustles
carries tongues, through the
fence)

I would rest, the morning light
blank, across the empty
carpet--I would lay

under the breeze

(falls and flaps, whistles,
and sags forward)

the vague buzz of morning,
the gate creaks,

breaks the leaves, against
the cement

I would fall, lay,
sleep,

(stands still, maybe gleaming,
the sunlight utters nothing)

even in the face of footfalls, if
I could sleep, once

more (rustles, shudders, hisses
rustles, falls still), the light
blinding, still--

xxxxxxx.

the shards fall
into the sage,

among the brittle
twigs,

the dust, and night
settle, the wire,

sunders the hillside
the sun sinks,

from the line,
the hawk flies

shadow falls across
the lower slopes

and into the valley
over the freeway

the glow wells over
the peaks, the

streams over the houses

sets the wash ablaze

xxxxxxviii.

the silence--if
rose, softened in the dark

the sharp crack, the wind
in the succulents,

hiss and fall, the spray
held in the air, if

the gravel held, momentarily,
sloped and snaked,

and the cliffs sharp, the moon
bright,

between, leading down,
the road still--

the dawn rise slow, the
shuddering leaves

xxxxxxvii.

it's not for me this sort of thing
what you say,

what I saw--I see the light
flare, on the sill

the sky flares in the round,
in the point--

it's not for me what you saw,
what I see--

I hear the scrape on the ground
of your feet, it's not

for me, where you go--not
for me what I hear

it's not for me but I hear
the crickets click

I see the walls crack, I see
the grass brown,

the roots crack, what I see
foundation, dust

I see the sun paint the broken
windows--I say

I--see, not for me, I go
just,

not for me, I
hear not for me

I go

transpiration

the cracked earth,
yellow weeds--waving
dry,

cut the sky, cast it
in the dust,

remember, when it
would race,

rush, cold--carry
peak to valley

leave remnants of
its reification,
pooled in their roots

the pasture dreams,

beneath the banks
the river darts
between the rocks

seeps upwards
rises,

is taken, unfinished
upwards,

promises to come again

aquifer

for the time,
all things might wait,

for we gather, in the lip
of fallen mountain, a

valley, broken by dirt--

wait, gathered
below,

(love--that last,
that least--)

absorb, unwilling, what
lies beneath us,

let someone's folly,
raise us,

free

of any legacy, forget
below--forget

to carry--

the cost of chance, the
cost of rest, of peace,

if we rise.

flood

the sedimentation holds back the river,
the culvert, this,
holds the last remnants of the flood,
it might eat the banks,
it might crest over the banks,

it might eat the dirt, and cast it
where least useful,
carries everything to where it

is not supposed to be, might
deposit it into
the place, where all things gather,
they might consume--

what was there, might suffocate
what was there, might

might grow, might fall--might
wait, might rise

above the banks

the dry place, is screaming, streaming
falling, from the rim,

is falling, is failing-is streaking from
the rim, may the gates, hold

may the gates fall, may the flow
remember, it’s shape

beneath the ground.

xxxxxxvi.

once upon this street--
I cannot speak--
the unutterable,

the unspeakable
faith--

I cannot say,

a thousand countries and
not one nearer

than the failing thread, I would
bleed to remember,

a hundred moments, not one
nearer than

the shadow on the ceiling,
flailing upon the

the lesser shadow, the
greater dark, the sky

speckled with stars, the
silence,

I draw a thousand borders,
streaming, the silhouette

streaming, a thousand countries
before dawn

ragged (i)

the edges trailing
ragged glory,

the slant bridge,
the sun

falls, into the murky
water,

and the lions,
hanging on the walls,

with the lamb,
in the window, the gleam

to the street, and in
the morning,

in the blue--the man
rolls his suitcase, along
the cobbles

xxxxxxv.

if you and a better heaven,
or a more interesting hell--

--then we should walk, in
the scree, along the tracks,

over them,

the grayed in grass, and the
paths silent, past

the benches, and the turnout
overlooks the freeway

down among
the streets,

when the moon is slivered,
a chunk of light,

and the houses are silent,
the streets fall

and twist, if you--and I
fall with them,

xxxxxxiv.

the whisper, below
the blade,

in the speakers, the
flash, falls

the dead live, now
the earth, rucked

open, to walk
among them the living

xxxxxxi.

at night, and in the odd corners
of the day--

I dream a city, falling into the sun,
the lights, rising,

to touch the stars, and a long
boulevard, and quiet corner,

and the lights lit, under the eaves,
yes, I dream the eucalyptus

bowing, to touch the ground, and
the water rising, from

the dead leaves, and I lay down,
on the broken fabric,

and I do not wake, but the dawn
falls over my face,

and my eyes open, and I do not
wake, because sleep

has come, and stays, and walks
with me--and who knows

what the day will bring
and I do not wake,

the mulch crumbles
under my feet, and the pepperfruit

crushed between my fingers, astringent
the dove murmurs

in consternation--but I will not wake,
and the houses slope,

and fall into the street, and the street
curves, cuts the hills, in two--

and I do not wake, but I climb,
and the manzanita clings to my boots,

and brushes the dusty ground

xxxxxx.

it compels you to love
it,

it will never love you,

but, somewhere in the lineaments
that draw the moving,

teeming, of its muscles tense
you will find

that you love it, anyway

in its wayward motion,
in truth, in memory

it will never love you,
but will give

always a reason to love
it, again--

...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

xxxxxiv.

The word, extruded--
        from between our fingers
is not the signal,
nor the sign,
          of the coming,

of better than this:
in the dingy, and dark,
of the room--someone

lost, to the passing,
told me, about how there
was a singer, who

spent his whole life alone,
across the ocean,
near, but not touching, I

will grind my teeth, and fail
again, and over, if--
it can be found, in failure.

xxxxxiii.

if you must be forgot
--then I will not live on nothing
and, if you must be consigned
to the dark, after the day has gone--
then I will remember at the edge
of the evening,

and if I must turn from the parking lot,
to hide the glimmer, under the white
cold light of the lamps, still--

--I will stow, far from the harsh
light of the morning,
this store, and the train rumbles
past the houses,

--of memory

and the headlights blind me, but
in shadow at the edge of
the shrubs, and resting by the walls
      rising over the gravel, I will not

let you fall, unheeded, and I will shudder
in the stairwell,

under the lights, on the silent landing, I
will shake, as the steps rise

to the door, and my feet will whisper your
name, hesitating, across the slats and
the threshold--but

I will not fear, and I will remember you
when the windows blaze,
and the shadows damp the peaks--and false
stars light the valley, as the grass waves,
I will step over into you.