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

cx.

the mountains dark arms open
blue grey twilight glowing cool and bright above them
lamps above shadowed buildings, at the entrance
gleaming by the slope

in the parking lot still and quiet, breeze
whisking a few leaves across the dark gray asphalt

the light pooling across the lines
warm and golden behind the screen
moving behind the counter
     kids running around the tables--

so the night's like a coat,

      --at the corner, he's wearing feathers and stripes
         for Samhain--

I made a ghost-list
to list my dead,

the name and date, I remember them
      --briefly, each
I think well of them
and I hope they're well

the soft burnt scent of summer falling to fall
hangs over the cement
the sliver moon and one star hanging next to the radio tower
the lights, cupped, gleam across the brick wall

the headlights streaming slowly
across the intersection
streaming steadily above the divider
the street makes a living altar of the night

cviii.

the moon rides the night sky, rolling to full
I think you're a bird and
you fly elsewhere, over wave
through wind, across mountain

peaks, arrayed like waves

we here below walk, sideways
the day is a dancer, moments
leap and kick, roll in a circle
arms spinning,

across the sidewalk, over the
asphalt,

some moment it will kick out
to where waves are,

where walking is and where flying
are the same place, woven
and weaving through time,

if things fall over, and roll out
of rhythm, into another

turn over each other, it's true
that it's all one movement,

far peaks and far skies, tableland
spread beyond the checkpoint,
dwarfs the arches

rivers glowing in the grassland
late summer, waves breaking

against the near shore, past
the horizon,

waves crashing in the mind only
through the snow-blocked passes
in the dark,

walk the wind blowing in from some
other coastline,

fly the wind rising across the line
from somewhere
beyond us

between the darkness, all winds
are the same wind,

if we are blown out and off course

into other places, all places are one
time, and in one wind,

dance together.

cvii.

when the winter came, some froze
and they fell

of those who fell, some crawled
forward, and some

were still, and silent--streaming elsewhere

the crack of bone on asphalt is
a thud, when someone

hits the ground,

the shatter, and falling
shards that fade into
the dust

and scrub

or the gutter,

of the shrapnel and scrap metal
some is salvageable

and some is not--the storm rolls
in over the cliffs,
waves cracking on the shore

stars bright in the inky night
trees snapping,

blows the plaza over the edge
--lost to the sky

over the valley, palms cracking

the snow comes in over the mountains
a gray wave rolling, cold

wind, ice on the road,

of those that crawled, some went
shambling, gathering scrap

through the burning summer,
the haze and rain of fall--

grinding, sometimes, or weaving
               and stumbling,

standing,

until the engine grinds, and rolls
over, somehow the piecemeal
chasis holds,

the freeway way thunders, close
but muted

as the clouds come down, the frame
shudders but holds,

shaking and shifting, it rises
along the
asphalt, the peaks crack

and the sky breaks, the wind
howls under the tires, or
the sky does,

kneel, briefly, to check the chains
for traction

scrap and sheet, pieced and gathered
shaking, rumbling, is sound
runs grinding,

at elevation, running clear
and at speed,
in the winter, though a storm