Night River

River swollen with
the June side of spring
runs bulge to bank

even as I sleep,
broken brambles swept
sideways into white

water wearing
brown borrowed earth,
liquid siege

like swift time
toward a downstream
dream as the night rain

comes down
from a lightning sky, drop
by drop by deluge

to the sea, past
the rocks now smooth
with the rush of it,

no more resistance
to the flood of it
as everything softens

like stone and like
golden sunrise on the gift
of another morning.



There is so little time
in the dark, my arm
draped round
your shoulders,
and yet so much,
throughout the passing
of one night, our bodies
turn this way
and that, fold one another
into the soft cradle
of sleep,
and in a love

that breaks our hearts
and mends them,
sends ripples
down the tunnel
of time and into paintings
not yet dreamed.
Oh, the brevity
of breath inside
a night room,
your hand in mine,
and also eternal.
One brush of lips

to lips adds forever
to the story. I cannot say
how it will end, though
it has already begun –
the moment
our hands pull back
that first curtain of sunlight,
we will already
be making our way
toward the open
window. Life is a balloon
inside us,

a spaciousness
filled by daily breath,
until at last our bodies
are lighter than this life
and we float
into the sky.
In the dark, my arm
folds round you
like a tether. We are timeless
and we are time, quietly adding
to the story of things,
even as we sleep.


to listen to
the sounds
of your

breath, not like
before, inside
the angst
of midnights.

Perhaps I
am learning
to be settled
in darkness,

to let the night
whisper its dark
secrets into
a starlit sky,

leaving me
with perspective
on how small

we really are –
an upturned
snow globe –

over the vast
of space.

Night Rain

Beneath the rare continuity
of water droplets on
the midnight roof, wakefulness

is a blessing. The leaves
have just begun their change,
and in the nighttime rain,

your soft bodies move closer
toward a center that,
for tonight,

is me. I lie awake
and wonder at the years
that might remain

of this particular sensation,
under a rolling sky
that plays the sweet music 

of the flood, while we dreamers
careen toward the inevitable
morning light.