Tuesday, March 22, 2016

whatever wind




watch the wind start up/the wind die down
need to go some place where the wind doesn't die
where the start remains
where forgiveness and familiarity
is the smoke stack through the dark green trees/signalling your future home
where every limb suggests embrace
every tree gives off the perfect shade
 and cover from the rain
says, where you  go   I go
where you go
where I go
where the house is
where the walls are that crave words to crumble sweetly to
where inside the walls there's another frame of another world
comprised of whispers that shout in what perfect wind 
when it comes to tear and to test
in whatever wind that reminds the mind 
In whatever wind that brings scent to you 
from another place around the bend
in whatever wind that changes you
changes the look of the land 
in whatever wind that takes your love 
and takes her love 
in whatever wind that swirls and dies 
and is reborn in your loving spark
in whatever wind that keeps track 
in the tracking of its carnage
 in whatever wind that seduces you 
into tall grass with your last love
in whatever wind that brings about new children 
in whatever wind that creaks the door jams 
where your children's growth lines are drawn 
in whatever world where the wind smooths the sails 
of your love's boat 
transparently perfecting the path 
of grey green sea 
between the islands 
and the open blue uncertainty
in the wind where the state is truly in the greatest wait
and all that frenetic fury that dances you
dances me      the sea and the     landscapes
in the wind that makes the word and the world wait
In whatever wind that forgets to
in whatever wind that forgets that there was ever anything 
else but the weight of the wait


what land



I don't ever want you to forget
just you and I

in the woods 
the long grass     the mounds of construction rubble 
you climbed like a small king 

the stories in the illegal trails 
we wandered down 
the illegal trails that are gone now

ghost woods
that have become ghosts of your youth
in all those same houses fast built
that stand ever tall
so tall and so same 

that we grow small and so haunting
in their forgetting the landscape.





cornfield




boy, we talked about running and hiding 
in the cornfield down the road from our old house

but we never did
we were worried about getting caught
and now

every year I count the corn crops as they tower and fall
and wonder what it would have felt like to chase you there 
at your 8/that is gone.



what I've learned about the poetry scene
is to quiet down     cease fire     disengage 
           to quiet in that scaly school
to never listen to the pretentious ones
who tell you what poetry is
as though poetry can be defined as anything
other than a long awe stricken primordial moan 
from before language was ever created

that bridge/your death



what is missing [to me
]at present
what left my small and 
unannounced leavings
how to grieve properly
all this grey

on my hands
mildew
a smell I can't wash away
that bridge/ your death