Dreaming of Things Falling Apart

This time it is a surprise to you
that you remember the dream
of your white teeth
falling from your mouth,
past your lips and down
the drain that used to be
your body

or possibly this is the dream
where you have taken apart the machine
that mows the grass joyfully
in the heat of summer
and you carefully wrapped the pieces
in cloth
like the dead.

It might be that someday soon
sleep will find you at home
alone in your comfortable bed
when you will again dream
you have lost your way
in the pounding ache of darkness;
the haunting drumming of the punk
you may or may not have played
as a kid.

It doesn't matter. It is only a dream.

Night in this chapter is the shadow of the mind
that tries to control your breath with shackles,
racing ahead of you with the skeleton keys
jangling in the pockets of your head;
making your rush
where you would rather
crawl under the warmth
of the heavy cover
of morning
and into
all that
pink and yellow
light.

Let yourself
close your eyes and jolt;
jump out of the frame
of this scene--
an old film
crumbling,
falling apart
on the floor
of your expectations.

Falling Feather

The heart is tender,
broken in the sound it makes.
A feather falling.

A String of Beads

String each breath together
like a strand of beads;
prayers for the moment
in which we live.

I am silent
but for the mind
that must travel
to places I've never been
and into the future
where I might never
arrive.

Patient,
the cool, smoothness
of the body pauses
smiles between my thoughts
and my clumsy fingers
and narrowly
escapes--

the light of the half moon
laughs as she dances
in spite of the racing clouds
and abundant stars.

Morning, she realizes suddenly,
is just over
the next rise.

Crocus at Twilight

Reach over and turn out the light
on the day that is leaving us,
my Love,
blue twilight escaping
into the January snow.

We have worked hard
side by side
shoveling away the grief
of our lives,
and now we must rest
nuzzled against each other.

Kiss me sweetly, just like we did
in the spring--while we held the hand
of hope
with the wonder of the crocus
against the cold.

Oh the crocus: so much like our hearts
need to be;
beautiful, strong
ready to risk exposure, fragile.

Hoping, beyond hope, that the troublesome snow
will melt quickly
so that a new season can begin,

new and noticed
by those who are looking
carefully.

The Year the Bears Forgot to Sleep

The year the bears forgot to sleep
the insomniacs arrived
after dark on the deck
at the feeder
meant for creatures of flight
with feathers,
not fur—

for aviators
who sang to me
in the sunlight of morning,
not huffing like prowlers
or old men in heavy boots—

not this old sow
licking black seeds
from the wood outside the window,
pawing at the compost pile
hoping for a morsel
of moldy cheese.

But they came,
night after night,
zombies in the balmy Vermont moonlight
and air

wandering dangerously
near the house
on Sunset Lake Road
just around the corner
from the all-night glow
of the neon
Chelsea Royal Diner sign

drawn, like all poets
and things that go bump
in the night,
to Rumi
and Kenyon
and the lullaby
of Goodnight Moon.

Walking Into the Thinness of Air

Why not
start
where every other time
you have stopped
and ignored
the smallness
of the mind
like it was less
than nothing.

Take in the next breath
and then exhale
and before you know it
you've forgotten
what it means
to know the intimacy of air--

the thin line we walk
as the sky opens
and the light pours in
to morning.

Save the risk
for some private thought
and let it evaporate
before taking one step forward.

Only in this space-
between thinking and grace-
will the blade of grass
between your toes
sparkle
and ignite
the world with hope

without
a glimmer
of security

or the promise
of even one drop
of elegant
understanding.

Old Orchard Beach, ME. . .November Walk

The sea curls
around itself like liquid glass
in the light of this early morning.

November chills my cheeks
and my nose begins
to condense the air-
drips joyfully
with each step
along the sand
where the weariness of days
filled with too many troubles
dissolves into the saline solution
and fades.

I smile and greet
the pink faces
of other inmates
set free into the yard
for meditation
and the medicine
of this hard labor
of hours and hours
of listening
to the whispers
of the dark water
against the brilliant moon
and vigorous fall stars.

We look briefly at each other
and return to the silent chanting
in our heads
that will release
the Gordian knots--
the confusion of these ropes
that gather like detritus
on the edges
of this nearly frozen
landscape.

My joints ache
and my heart
nearly bursts
with the knowing
of the kindness
in the eyes
of all these strangers.