breaking fever

rocked to the ground, crippled
in a cold sweat, I broke ground
I put my hand below the earth
and stroked the spine of life
wherefore I had left myself
and picked up my own heart
thrust down among the bones.

walking about

you are the fear:

the necklace hung across heaven
for this night, and all nights after,
the gate to god under the tree,
the mountain aside, the riding breeze.

this soil grows
both panic and love.

the one day

five times,
thrashing against the evening sky
I pinned all the hope to the sun, and
waited for it to set.

at the sunrise,
I found it newly scraped and stretched
drumming the voice
of the silent flight
wherein I caught it home;

striking my palm to the earth
all the trees nodded - tall, pale-capped truth
and I pulled the making from the ground
five winds up, far from the heart.

one cat night

o softfooted
lightpawed
brighteyed night
longtailed night,
silkfurred night-
night with starglinting fangs,
night with cold claws.
night that takes us unaware
as we stare above the long grass of the sun.

enough

I wish
that I'd stayed up
with the moon all night!

cliff

stone of tree! rocky clasp of water
rocking to sleep all the bramble bushes
that embroider the shore.
the shells rattle a little sleep song
to the tired road above.

low lamp

see there? all those stones
those standing wombs
were all carved for me,
and my entry from the sea.

none came before me, though
some came after;
of like I have none,
but all men are my kin.

the stave in the rock
was my first step
and the hollow of the hearth
was my first rest.

once I've ended
there will be no more beginnings
until I've done my rest
- until I've done my rest

following

around the fingers
a snake
bites the tail
of every other;
one handclasp
before evening, parted.

place, NE

long bristle-branch; duck!
thorns tear this way and that,
and at the end, the grass slips out
willing only for buttercups, and
some lighter wasps.

the two little bushes have little to say
even to each other; the stump
is always a fearful warning
and they fear to grow into it, and then
away from themselves.

at some point, the flowers made a name of it,
but seeing how indifferent the house remained
they sulked, and went away,
whilst we two inside grew,
and flaunted new colour.

accept

at the corner of the road
knowing my love, I know
that everything is as it will be.

asleep behind

vivid, my love lies dreaming
with patterns of fern and face
tangled up in his hair.
dark the lines of story
written by the clasping arms,
the shut eyes, weighted to the cheek.

as blind, I read the chapters
with curious hands—
the next part, and the next.

alberta

the wilder spring: not melting
but lashing itself free of the earth
beating a frozen heart, like a drum,
to stir the warm war winds
against cold hordes.

considering the next month

at the end of this, my spring in the year,
I can see the landslide, the dam bursting,
the washed-out roads, the flooded dwelling.
in the beginning of this, my spring of the year,
I shore up my houses, but I am afraid
that enough has been too little—
I cannot bind enough together
to stay above water.

the tense future

the archivist
makes his work
at the end of the road—
every sharp corner
is a paragraph.

northwest

against the wind, no head
lowered; no fear made
from lancing bursts
of cold, and colder ice.

grass still green, trees
sulkily retaining leaves,
while the few flowers
become convinced of a lying spring.

once it did snow, and then
even the tall pines were justified,
limbs spread like skirts in mid-dance.
as it melted, they withdrew.

winter theorem

the wind is in seven directions;
in the centre, the cypresses
plot against it, and hold it down,
releasing it in the morning
for a gulp out of the sun.

pacific

it lies sleeping; somewhere
between sea and shore,
branch and twig,
it curls with closed eyes
and dreams:
each landslide, each
temporary waking
is a seventh wave,
a knot in the bark.

Amergin

I am the furnace of evening, the
quench of dawn; who but I
breaks the soul borning?

the thousandth
is as the first:
a loss without understanding.

measured

winter:
the wind takes a step towards me
but I am in water;
each mother has something to ask,
some far question
with fewer answers.

back

throughout the call
the tunnel of road,
tree, and sky
I am walking; through
the heart I am coming,
and the flesh too.

madonna

madre de dios-
save, save us,
call us forth
when the world has swallowed us up.

praise

I, the burning
wrote the names
freshly;
on the window,
on the door
with the white-hot hand
with the heart
called each name
to a door of the universe.
none but I, the quenched
rested behind the new door
the soul, shut fast.

flame

the prayer, in the breath
in the mouth, in the soul;
the body, replying
I.

dawn

we grow
afraid of ourselves
come morning.

deva

o my heart
wails
the newborn heart
clutching
to the
loving one

the opening

my mind paints you
with different colours;
pitch-black as tall pines,
blue as the evening restless wind,
and seagrass on high cliffs
touched by a little shadow,
a little light.

after three months

beloved,
I am now
more used
to your body
than my own;
you
are the
new border
of the new moon
of my arms.