a feeling on the next to the last day in May

 folded just to the south of my rhomboid major 

lies a jar of fireflies 

   no idea of who captured them there--or exactly why 

do they represent some mark of meanness or merely accidentally trapped during a storm

do they come from a trail to the river or some forgotten mountain passage 

do they like it here within this tiny impossible mason jar folded 

             just to the south of my rhomboid major 

somedays I barely notice it 

somedays there is a rumbling 

somedays a burn .... 

 they are restless as they twitter & light 

tapping the glass--trying to escape into the pinkness of being 

       a life ever so brief 

wishing for the space beyond breath & bone 

yet gloriously aware of how fortunate it is to be a firefly  

open the lid 

find a field of cattails & meadow daisies and call it home 

sitting with

 Of a morning 

where 

words are plucked from my fingertips and carried away on the promise of rain 

and a quiet rolling waking 

ahh 

there in the top of the linden tree 

perches yesterday's self & a small red bird 

quiet rolling waking rising to pearly skies 

of a morning 

at seven o'clock alongside death

 there seems to be this fresh relationship with death 

it was pinned 

       to a change in my views towards my mother 

where once was this hollow of jealous neglect 

(upon finding an old letter of hers to a younger me) 

I suddenly felt her regard, her obsessive attention that was indeed love 

    love so cloaked in cigarettes, roses, autumn, taboo perfume and sun beams 

I felt her 

in totality 

in all the complicated ways we humans move thru life with fire-dreams & stillness 

death: 

    it shadows me now with a knowing relevance 

what was once far is tighter--familiar & tangible 

we were somewhere before we were here 

      and there were smells of cigarettes, roses, autumn, taboo perfume and sun beams 

prince dog

there exists my charmed familiar,
scuffed & clever bundled atoms
    carved from some ancient tale
his short tail
    ... is joy
present in wags & wiggles
this bundle draped in white wired fur
my familiar
he has pulled me from the brink
untied my lashed wrists from train tracks

unlocked my cage
nudged from numb number numbest & perilous cliffs
warmth against cool
lassie to timmy
silver to lone ranger
humor disguised as ... well. no.
he doesn't have the bones of subterfuge
he is what he is; 
a twelve year old boy-prince bewitched as a terrier
loving kettle corn

squirrels 

sunshine
and me
my familiar 
     this ancient tale--this fairy curse
rests upon this dog with 

heart
and
mirth

head game

there were a lot of people to take in--
   to observe

   make up stories about 

my dad taught me how to do that - how to watch people - - - 

imagine
imagine their name, start there ....
what line of work are they in why are they here what do they love to do are they happy?
tonight...
it was
the doctor across the aisle
and
the woman in front of me with the black & white scarf like my mothers
the doctor was restless, running his hands thru his thick gray hair repeatedly
large hands, capable & skilled .... his legs never quit moving, thrumming, tapping to some interior melody that made it almost possible for him to listen
the woman was invited to attend but hadn't a clue as to what this event was

she was lonely and unsure of her place in the world

but resolved & stubborn 

she would have a good goddamn time if it killed her

she was a professional bowler
his name was Theo

hers was Alice
the two would meet later over Riesling & rice crackers

      they would discover a shared a love of Portuguese & New Orleans
They were both named after poets

direct to allium royal

writing comes syrup'd between
the orbit
of
right
and
mercury ...
pulsing
with the ever-present need for the taste of
honey-salt-sun upon my tongue
and …
the beat of the ordinary 
contrast contrast
of violet anger to sublime all-rightness
contentment voids the hand of ancient immediacy
pull of moon
weight of blood
life held in delicate fierceness
as knowing erases the solitary lines
gravity inked with sureness bold
folded in, rolled in … to me 
whole
ahh . .  the wind breaks the one o'clock hour to mark the repair
 … the recovery
sun direct
whole:
hole-ness
holiness 
pull of moon
rise
of
sun

65 miles to Hazard

turn from the highway
fields of prairie grass
north to the river
beyond the moon's grasp
thrumming of tires
rumble of gravel bare
timeless movement
'neath stars & night air
solitary becomes the warrior
weight & welter silver
silent grey-white of bone
harsh will come the winter
yet here of smallness
amongst fields harvest
here one with evening
light greets darkness
nocturne velvet cooling
trees to whispers dance
lonely sits the broken
clarity enchants
easy will break daylight
swift the days will fly
heart touches all sorrow
joy rides the fireflies

turn from the highway
fields of prairie grass
north to the river
embrace the moon's grasp

weight of air

buttercream
mandarin branches weeping
peeking
blue agate night boiled dry
amongst stars & hurricanes
tempest
reckless
white sails approaching
glass jam marmalade
velvet grenades
lobbed & powdered
by
confectioners sugar'd moonlight
allow the great horned owl
its due
oh blue agate night ...

no it's not there either ...

No search for cherry blossoms will find it 

not there 

despair 

not swallowing bones & light 

hides no where but deep in folds of a withering self 

burrowed in a life too small 

                              too tightly wound 

to feel the sky 

despair 

What cleft 

what hollowed 

nothing 

is this? 

shadow'd 

oily creature 

blooming 

consuming 

bone 

in its 

winding wickurly 

search

for 

cherry blossoms