Conversations (XII) — to pictures I’ve not taken
Your face. The moon through the branches of days.
Morning sprouts from the top of the tree
And brings light down to earth.
Your face. The moon through the branches of days.
Morning sprouts from the top of the tree
And brings light down to earth.
Don’t tell me anything: You are the tree.
In a patch of years I forgot to climb
My life turned like a leaf stem.
Even in this fragile spinning
The memories of cicadas sing.
The underground sky feeds me.
The bed of the earth extends to the ends
Of sheet-swept seas.The reasonings
Of mountains the resting place
For flocks of wishes in the empty trees,
The hollowness of hope their strength
To rise for nights of countless flight.
A rolling vessel rested in a calm, went on
Along the pale compass of your wrist.
It was never lie or lay.
There was never one direction.
People will be watching.
Be careful how you love —
It may cause an unsafe drop in
Side effects. A special election
Edition that will last right up
Until we are all dead and
Changing the subject.
(That never happened.)
Outside the polling place
Of the soul they stand,
The watchers. The monitors
Who do not believe in us,
We are so invisible to them
We can walk past them.
Their eyelids only snap open
When they hear the hand
On the lever.
We lay here on the edge with a handful
of words not knowing when it will come
upon us and knowing when it comes
(the words will be left to stand guard)
it will be without knowledge
of us and without us knowing it has come
then the skidding slippery acceleration
then the slow wholeness of a moon passing overhead
*
most of our memories congregate here on its borders
but are not allowed inside we remember
gaining it we remember losing it
rubbing our eyes with the shock of its absence
we lay here not wanting to forget a thing
but to enter it is to forget
the weight of everything else
*
we wonder sometimes what really happened
when we were there and the answer is always
much more than that happened
the loss of context that puts all into context
the details of our days all birds and sand
I have given up trying to remember anything
more detailed than that wing of a smile
but even when we know we will never lose each other
we cannot stop the alarm it is in another world after all
so here on the edge we gather with our words
the words listen for us and try to remember
while we’re gone and to hum the song
we were singing once we’re gone
Geese evacuate beneath the moon’s thin retraction
Trees are whispering their new addresses to each other
and now the houses breathe without coughing
I shrug free and share the sigh of open windows
In the blue morning the sky’s a cut-out
key unlocking summer’s heavy stockade
When the world was upside down
you fell into my arms and I woke
Their balance, while temporary, seems eternally sure.
One rubs his beak on the sun-warmed bark
like a blade on a whetstone.
The other chooses from the roughly
ten thousand sounds starlings are capable
of making, emitting a two-tone whistle
which mimics the sound of the second
half of a life-changing question.
If not for the wind chime’s song I would not have known
what I wasn’t seeing, so still it all seemed.
Only by not watching starlings could I
acknowledge the entire tree was moving
with the flexibility the most exact feeling or
thought must have to survive year after year
as it branches out, spreading across open space.
Ask a starling what the difference is between feeling and thought
who, stopping for minutes, may seem like they will remain
as long as they need, completely still, utterly certain
in each feather that everything in fact is moving
at the speed of the first half of a life-changing answer

So I took you up with me
to this chiseled place
where the clouds are closer
than their shadows
The whisper among the trees
a shout of bark and lichened rock
Mountainside trees stand differently
shaped by cascading arrangement
higher up where the wind is so loud
you no longer register it as sound
all I hear is the noise of trees bending
against each other, ajar to the invisible
like doors opening all around me

On a Monday I promised you words
but became an overcast dusk.
You found the gap in me and looked
beyond the oracular swirl
where another sky floats, small and azure,
a Tuesday telling
leaning like a distant friend, bright
blue even when blue, beside
gold light on a companionable cloud.
