Saturday, August 30, 2014

he will not write

he will not write,
not today or tomorrow
and I hold the tatters of words
like the body of a hummingbird.
i wanted him to fly
to dip his head to poem and paragraph,
but perhaps there was not enough
to feed him there.
Three times his body weight a day,
to keep such wings in motion,
but I seldom talk of sugar and red water.

i cannot make sense
of the way the sun rises,
over and over
north to south to north again
even behind the clouds.
i cannot make sense
of how fog can wisp
the deepest greens
billowing a moment
with the hawk’s passing.
i cannot make sense
of one in-breath and then
one out-breath,
hello, goodbye,
here, gone.

spiral fossils cannot hold
a living snail,
but I could still smell the ancient ocean,
skeletons in stone,
still taste the salt.
And that is what breaks me over and over,
and makes me dream 
no, makes me begin to long
three pounds of ash.


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