let me be solemn in Yosemite

i have not made the world my home
nor have i considered the egos of nighttime mountains

their bare bones make no difference to me
as i sit in a darkened bus exhaling a ring of fumes,
an open-mouthed wreath gifted to the world

i have never spoken to the brokenness of bridal
veil falls, even though she waits for me ’til morn
like a petulant little sister connected solely by chance

i suppose,
there is something though, beyond all my dumb breathing
beneath all this tumbling, and all-out burning of mother
and father, sister and brother stars

if, and when,
things are as they should be, i will latch onto the musical
strings written expressly for me, and dance holding onto
the hem of your skirt which is not one of the least of these;

thank you,
please, for wildflowers sleeping


17: NaPoWriMo and Real Toads

I Dream a Communion

Everybody knows I’m married to Liberty. It has to be this way so the branch won’t break when the feathers fall in the field as they always do, out-of-the-blue, making us wonder; making us seek a culprit. We insist there’s a fang-faced mongrel! We insist he Exists. Touché, I exit early for a funeral, hang out in darkened halls, because that’s my need. I need sustenance. I mean I’m grubbing on some food at a funeral. I admit everything by admitting nothing. It has to be this way. I’ll eat the moon, -its shadowy face.

[playing it again for the Toads as inspired by Grace]


This First Sunday

this is my point
of reference
this deferent
wafer, bit of body
bit of bread
flat and fresh
for all centuries

(for Quickly)