tarry

Voyager, you tarried
too long--
now the shore confounds you
the fires burning
over the dunes
the smell of meat is drawing
you away
from the silent rolling water
and you are reluctant to leave
the sedge you sat on
the soft and wistful rustle
whispers to you
that dusk has fallen

the word (ii)

God made us his well-honed instruments.
don't believe it?
didn't he leave sign in the clouds?
or when you drank in the jasmine
--and I didn't drink alone?
He gouged the Word into your hands
can't read it?
then lay your palms to the sand
and hear it spoken.

brambles

the world is rolling
you and me
we'll pull off the cart-path
me-- I'm going through the forest
I'll be in town before it
I'll go ahead with warning
and you--
you follow behind it, closely
to gather up the survivors

we'll meet again, sometime
here in the brambles

reading Rumi (iii)

the weavers left,
always a flaw in the pattern
for God to step through--

Sage-- I am the knot
where the fibers tangled

"God made man and woman so that
each completes the other's work".

God is also a weaver

the bone-man

the bone-man
I would like to be the bone-man
tonight I am all flesh
you-- world-- who so desires this flesh
why don't you take it
here, I give to you
and take-- why don't you carry it
with the rest of the sludge
down the sea?

what use are hands?
what use are eyes?
what use is flesh?
what use are lips--

here I will tear them from face
here. I will press them against
the bark of this tree--
here I will press them against
this couch, that cradles me unwilling
here. I will press them to the pavement--

I am waiting, here
I am listening
for the one who is coming
for the creak of the gate
for the rustle
of footsteps, under the rustle
of the palms, here--

I will press them to the garage-door,
where we used to play handball
the smack, against the door
while the sky grew dark, and the air
grew cold
I will press them to the driveway
I will grind them under my feet
I will leave a glistening smudge
to kiss the feet of any who pass
by here
maybe even mine.

... (v)

There is nothing
no nothing left
I thunder in the space left behind
as my veins are hollow
and my pulse thunders in them
the world in heat is a jungle
but the heat in one is a fever
I am shivering in the sunlight--

when there is nothing
left for movement
the hands slacken and the legs buckle
but the motion unloosed
is shuddering--

in the wake of desire
I cannot take your hand
nor feel your touch
I am beyond comfort
it left me senseless

some in fire

if the world failed its mercy
and did not go down burning
if instead it went scavenging
hollow-eyed
and hollowed out the sidewalks
if we were standing in the ruins
and the city was still standing
and the heads turned
whenever one of us gasped
the dream dried quietly
and mingled with the dust
soft on the pavement
and left us alone in the sunlight

if the weight of the day drove us down
and if we were nothing but fallen
were no more than leaves
too heavy to be blown

then we must kindle ourselves
for when the wind comes whispering
the name of the smoke