IN-BETWEEN DREAMING.

And then, people like me, are thrown from dust,
to dust-and then crows are called in for a murder trial.
I am awake to the sound of the trilling of birds out my window.
Destruction is like misery. It is hard to see, to hear-
a telephone rings, and begs goodbye to me. He is a wanderer,
the sound of summer in darkness, the sound of hands moving back to me.
The ghosts are woven in strands of summer magic, as if I believed in magic at all.
I am nowehere, Ohio, I am the state that drifts outside of who I am. My mother
ignores me. My father is distant in my mind.

Time does not become me. It is not who I am. My friends are not my friends. My friends are set in stone statues. It is the sadness that brings me. It is the rape
that is fresh in my mind, how tired I am. Some people read and speak in English,
other people eat their daily supply of bread. He was not my friend. He is the betrayer. The speaker of solemn words. Of pretend condolences. He is equipped with
nothing. His mind dreams about nothing. I wake up and the birds chirp in my window. Everything is like it was. He has his children. I have my bread. It is supposed to be okay, I am not reminded of anything in between dreaming.
From my father, I forget, from my father, I have forgotten. The shadow lies in the windows of time. The windows of destiny.

It is what it is what it is. It is from a far off state I have never heard of,
the place that is wrapped in paper chains. The sky that is colored and dipped
in red, the sky that is translucent in its wake. We are woken. All things are woven,
including despair, and the darkness that lingers here is strong like lions,
and beauty is written away with a colored marker. I am accused; I am the accuser.
I stand before the trials of the court, and shadows whisper to me like spiders,
in broken things.

Close To Summer.

The sky fills me with tired grace.
I am driving in the sunshine towards work,
And the sky is on my mind.
I can’t gain anything from the sky.
The putrid flesh; the rotting bones;
The honey of dew.
A hurricane is off the shores of South Carolina.
The winds rip and roar and graze through
The clouds,
And everything is putrid,
Smells of rotted meat.
The rainbow mars my perfect view of the sky.
Everything is full of grace, everything
Is translucent.
Everything is everything,
And nothing is whole and sacred.
Words are to the wise.
The words are templar.
Things transcend up a marble staircase,
And I walk, my nose sniffing the daisies.
The daisies wake in summer.
It’s not summer yet.

Wings of Trees.

The trees dance in meadows and bend
Against the sky
The sky is a blue flower
Bluer than the world beneath it.
The soil has eroded, weathered in rock
And grain.
Farming is simple. It can’t be denied.
The sun beckons out to tomorrow.
The sun, the wind, the rain,
Flies outward into nothingness,
The void that is endless,
No shadows or reason of shadows.

She said, “Let’s come.”
He said I couldn’t leave her.
She said apples and oranges bend
To the wind.
She said I don’t know where I am.
He didn’t say anything.
Words don’t mean anything.
They are shaken, stirred, dried.
The apricots are dried on the table.
The apples are dried in the sun.

Tomorrow is a new day.
Tomorrow is not the only one.
One day and the next day and the next,
We gaze into the otherness of time.
We gaze into the stillness of autumn.
And the sound of each other’s heart beat.
It bends on swift wings
And time flies out the door.

The Sky Is Full.

The sky is full of corn flower clouds.
The wind moans
like a guest-beating
at the back door of
the summer house.

No more guests for the week. They have
all gone home due to the power outage
from the storm,
that rose from the west
and beat against the windows

like invisible hands.

Sometimes, things seem to change.
Other times, the wind stops blowing.