How The Sky Came
When I was a grain of sand,
I saw a rainbow robe
the sea - the weather passed
and turned me into
When I was a rock
dust and tears made a bed
inside of me, until
a mountain I rose.
When I was a mountain,
protecting beasts and people
from the city’s pillaged tongue,
giving them sanction
beneath my hard shawl,
a hand swept down
and destroyed my peace,
turning me into sky:
a castle for the stars.
Lovers of winter
weep for the strange
gave birth to their
Notes of music rise
like a boy
from the river
giving air to a free
how well & true
your lips established mine
with their tenderness
There beside you,
mute & marvelling, we should have
to the shadows . . .
for the firedogs have
crept into the rainwater,
and your smile
splits the cloudbanks
I hear the wild birds
sing beneath my skin.
Too many bitten souls,
walking by, bursting
is an avalanche, pouring
through the darkness: a dry ocean
inside the clouds.
Life is so generous
with its gifts, but these hands
like razors slaughter the sky
Bare feet on grass,
feels only the stones.
Who craves the perished sun? Do I?
Do I love for nothing but death?
To be blinded by ecstasy,
to feel the tears of wonder flow
to hunt for the colossal Self . . .
I walk through the dust-ridden morn.
The wind splits my shell:
It enters. It knows
Of Things Unseen
I cannot speak the simple lie
or whitewash the canyon’s depth.
I cannot flow through like
a wave, tender, lucid, despite
Suddenly, the butterflies are huge
like intuition, like a birthday cake glowing.
A mutual silence between the stone
& the sand’s finest grain.
The wind is coming from the meadow.
People are talking of things to come
that will enthrall, and maybe
injure. I have loved you with
my eyes closed & ears pressed
to the aging dream. I have loved you
lying alone with a stallion’s
fury and a mare’s soft fight.
I have borne my suffering
as a heart bears what it can,
There are no leftovers,
no cylinder funnel to collect
and preserve extravagant prayers.
In this place, I lean but I dare not cry -
a rosebush past its prime, brittle in the sun.
I am collapsing, out loud,
reforming every cell, painful alterations. My God
of fluid, my God, grand as, and grander than, myth -
I have cut through this horizon. I have cut
through my thick interior, and still, I’m tilting
like an old tree
unable to stand. My God,
breathe into me, make plans for my soul or let me die,
bound in this circle. My God, rain into my reservoir -
it feels so long
since I have been untethered.
There are other worlds. There is Jupiter.
My God, please repair this punctured deck
or throw me overboard.
Fill me, my God, with love,
strong enough to override the weight of this
It is time
to let individuality out,
and not be smothered by the material plain.
It is time to labour on just because
there is a circular motion to all things
and gravity does not have the last say,
because human compassion is limited, but God’s is not.
I saw the key fall into the gutter. I fell
down the top flight of stairs. Mosquitoes blinded
my hunger for the deeper truth. I am ready
to not be ashamed. I am ready
to stand in the centre of my peace, live
as I was meant to, seeing
lack and disappointments as gifts
in spite of it all.