Eyes Red Galoshes

To the north,

isolation escaping over ice.

I was born of the crowd

to the crowd,

my mouth pasted on me closed.

I whip my back with feathers,

wear sackcloth of spun gold.

As the curve of collective consciousness

moves us closer and closer

to opposite edges.

The secret catapult

and the old rope swing

evade notice.

Except to me,

my eyes red galoshes in a

congregation of black.

Did I ever loan him a life vest

or sell him food?

We live our lives in a

stranger’s life.

He ran alongside the

multitudes until he

absorbed them.

Abuse

I died as a child,

and drew my first breath

as an adult.

From the Morning

In the creamy morning light,

fat snow lounges on the mountaintop.

My new day has no confidence.

My shoes wait by the door,

made of bone china

And stained with my used blood.

Secondhand fire bounces

off the receding moon.

Numbers await me,

my house and my mind

Filled with them.

Math cuts me.

The subtraction demanded

of me is too much.

I shove my feet in my shoes.

Outside the morning is frosting

on my world.

I have nothing but

the robbery of my body.

The End

The knife peels away

my life like skin from an apple.

My mouth was never

designed to grow old.

In the impossible hour,

my matter exposed to the end.

Pointless Difference

After metamorphosis –

thought,

projected project,

my tongue at the door.

After the renewal of my skin,

Vows of ivory.

All thoughtful ideas are

material things.

Lines construct wishes

That let you down face to face.

Old Friend

Somewhere in the identified town,

an old friend who does not tire out

lights the lamp.

It’s amazing what forms he takes

when he is alone.

Indivisible shape of personal election

and sweltering affiliation.

Loyalty of nationality,

shown by unlimited birth.

Women and infants like

oil and flame.

Surrounded by the neighbors,

He lives the life he has been given,

cleaning the cleanest of plants.

From One to Another

Small as a pond,

You are bordered by mossy velvet.

You act like me.

Rivers do not

associate with women.

First I was a fish.

Then I was provided with womanhood.

The oars on the canoe

Love one another in Morse code.

I’ll walk under the hollow water.

My understanding of

beauty and all that you can do

flourishes like kelp,

always below the surface.

The Ruby

I build a home against the

sure bet of his chest.

He goes down in me

in search of the ruby.

I am a statement of

conjecture and figure.

It’s a romantic romance,

wearing every red color except red.

At the Edge of the Wilderness

Abuse me.

There is more of me to leave.

Like cinders in the forest.

I cleave to my fundamental heat.

Delete me inside.

Too much of me

and you’ll need water to hold.

His Music

He is a place

Of marble and speed.

He writes me notes

That I hear.

His story is one of unearthing,

of a sun making casualties of snow.

Over the arc,

absolute shape –

my calves,

finish lines.

His novel.

You will find me alone

next month,

calling music my own.