(w)hole

The world is the hole
we did into, the whole that
likes out, drenched in starlight
the whole, the world about

Star-stuffed parentheses
sponges soaked in light

The world is of us, hill
over bone, a coinage of the rain
a pose, a lick, a dash

White After Dark

trees cut white into pages
cut the light into radio waves
roll the fog to make diplomas

hours roll upon knuckles
sky raises its moon like a nightstick
black and blue and white

time is sanctuary cut time open
the cross cut curls like a finger
licked to lift the pages

Continue

the Stradivarius is
a pull chain, and
any light is a continuity

of every light and
sound, a foundling set
to fret, on every vibrancy

and a touch continues
where every other
touch let off

in the pit, tuning
all singular things, aching
to be in concert

Seizures

eyes open at dawn
darting like fish in a bowl
gathering sparkles

~

eyes craving the light
cross and double everything
bountiful mirage

~

eyes speculating
outbidding the richest dark
cunning investment

~

light and distraction
the secret wealth of vision
from the fount of tears

~

these eyes are pennies
their pictures bought and paid for
bagged like possessions


#575 #Haiku

Before and After Light

The horizon passes overhead
a blood-rimmed eyelid and
we staffers of the night
gather up behind, slant shadows
spilling from a Trojan dusk
disperse, we spread out.

Unevenly, so that the twinkles
invariably pry through, and the
street lamps find a place to stand
leoparding the glimmer tippled
grays, halting it, blanketing
spangled with light leaks.

We ply the night, shark fins
slice the sea of it, cool bodies
unseen, bump up against the little
glowing beams that stab the load bearing
columns into the strong coffee
of a down hollow—we are enviably
black, defiantly not daylight.

It seems pitiless, this work, this
arthritis of sight, that climbs
up the bone ladders of otherwise decent
afternoons, to deviously withhold it
from those thirsty eyes that
will look at damn near anything
just to be seeing.

Veiled

you will come to know it
at the very moment you are
putting off thinking about it

but it will happen to you

and you will try to think
your way out of it, too
or think your way through

as you go, as you actually go

Photo: the window by my desk at home.

Unearthing Sky

Under a spooning dome of swollen sky, they gather in swirling kettles. They never know where to look until a vision taunts them. They hesitate. The light of the sky waiting for its own green signal. Then they shine. How do they know to be so quiet?

The red things reflect the reds. The rest of the spectrum disappears into all the red things. Now everything is bathed in light. Rainbows crammed into the suitcases of every wave, every particle. The neurotic, misty light searches everywhere, looking for shadows to expose. It is constant. Seeing makes it confess to this persecution of the dark.

If it could only shine inside one, for a while, then we could see them too. The shadows. We could see within them. What on earth could be found in such a place? Light thinks it’s the only thing that matters. But without it we could not see fit to argue. Are we shadows, then?

Hackberry Moon

The untenable bloat
of a star-fed night
the belt of blackened sky
finds the end of its catches
and drawers, breaches the opened

Window of evening
baring to the plebeian fields
a pimpled moon—abruptly
   speeds away toward the dawn
rattling what remains

Of leaden, time-bound constellations
in a hooting, waxing mood
pranking the polished mirror
where the cosmos appear—

Did you see that, dear?