often never enough

we lost our open mouthes somewhere in space
the currency is different there, like smokey explosions where no one can see
the combination of our heat and our wholes make the night wicked
its cold here and the baby cried when i tried to kiss her face

in the evenings we sat by fires, hopeful, because kindling wrapped in birch bark ignite
and scorch, it is desirable to feel this alive
it is sinful to take too much

the ground work has been lain, or tried
sometimes the beams shake and we cannot find our way to safe ground
each step mocks the last and each time we move, our bodies tremble
whether it is from the anticipation of fear or from the regularity of the sensation cannot be discerned

when the moon rose again this month i noticed the sliver first
i noticed the black sky in its absence and i counted the stars that filled its void
with the coming months i feel the new and the ending and seek the grace that might fall on us if the path is paved
we are never the construction workers, we say the same
and i never let cats join in in our unraveling spool games

the ink is drying, the pages have stuck together
my monkey arms lose their flexibility and i wonder if it ever was
to begin the day with a night is a new. i search for the cave where once i was brilliant
and now the attics dust comes to settle on sheets and stuffed bears with no true name
i cannot find my keys, misplaced in the hands of a sister
who lives in cancer heaven like a stag or a falcon
she holds her pincers nobly, her arch angel name echos off the stones that once were dirt

secret names float through the air, and together we noted the importance
their importance.
the candle burned to the core, when its wick was lit the flame had three parts
and its deepest, a black orb so pure is mistaken for shame
mistaken for shame or hurt, simply because its outer shells invite and rage
i hold candles to my chest, sometimes to let the wax drop, slither, harden, crack.
I tenderly peel away dead light and care for the broken.

under needled conifer a twelve year old gelded chestnut lost his rider
finding there the quiet that barns and pastures cannot obtain
the chestnut flicks his ears, there are no flies
we watch, we are eager children and we have spotted some great treasure

your head is a wasteland, you would have me believe, nothing grows but baby spiders
and speaking frankly, i noticed your fear before anything else
and i looked at you from across cement one night, and your eyes shined just so
and your lips moved to part the silence
if that moment ever completes, i will bathe myself in sand until the unobtainable because untainted

and then there came the time when i saw red bumps along my skin
now a tattoo artist lies comatose, his masterpiece unfinished, his client sulks
her back is undone
you mentioned once that you felt with every inch of your soul and i forgot to ask you if
that is different from the heart.

im coming around, started or startled
perhaps like a bird, caged and wrinkled, the floor is paper clippings and droppings
collecting the impatience of time in a fluttering canary's chest
its pale yellow reminds me of easter sun and altered eggs
the girl runs forever, her hair holds beads in place, in two years she will outgrow the style and start to repress her beauty
it is catastrophic, her sixth birthday blamed the rest
six is half less than twelve, the glass remained half empty for considerable years, tripping even the smallest wires
i watched as you watched her, and from the inside she squirmed, the new old and the old new cannot exist together without a disruption

'come with me' called the wind, i was tempted.
the wind knows the breath of every world, could it forever circulate? perhaps the air that you taste in phoenix is my exhale from alaska.
speaking through time our voices travel, it is so without our knowledge, in weak moments we forget that we came from an eggshell
we forget each other, because our bodies cannot touch
we do not know how to touch our thoughts
you have assured me that someday it will happen
i hold out for someday
but not for you

hindi gods and holy cow come to me in my dreams
when walking through gardens the spirits of dead beans flock to subdued shepherds
they sleep with their eyes open to trick the moon, they speak in hushed tones to trick themselves
i myself find the fields full of life, you see them as harvested exclusion
the worrisome never rest, i want to tell you this, sleep with your heart extended to the hurtling heavens
with dreams come vision and we lock together that close perfection
i cannot yet find our differences

when the red sea parted and coarse hair curled, i watched from the overhanging trees
biblical babies storm sand castles, clenching their fists to take the crusade to your back porch
thats where we sat, with our fingers and our tick hearts tocking as we spoke
its then that i reminded you of our tea with the queen and the knights who raised their weapons to us when we crossed the threshold
she sang in a garden, and we stole the pears from her trees
to see pear trees in the arctic, no wonder our lives have been so blessed

as it comes to pass we prepare our silences
the breaded and bleeding breasts that we set to the fire browned and calmed after a few moments
still nothing but the hour glass tells time, stuck to the table, a fairy tale, a curse
a witch with her nose in a book, she calls on her sister for comfort only to find her feet twisted beneath the basement
the black dog always saw more than those would have thought
and for christmas this year you suggested we dress in costume and character

i understand now that the ground work was never truly lain
it bleeds instability leaving footsteps dangerous, it is just as much work to find the audience as it is to write the story
shifts of the unknown often leave the weary in constant shock, it is impossible for us to find our way back
who are the people that we have become, they follow in shadows, stalking the future as energy claims its prize in our ponders
we shake the leaves off dying trees and dance in the plunging foliage, sometimes you tell me that things will be OK
sometimes you surprise even me, but often never enough.