Falling Star

Just as this bed faces the window now,
just like we turn toward the night
where lace curtains hang like they’ve always hung
since people first learned how to hide.

Just like I want to turn toward you,
or how sometimes I might go inside
when you get home so late and I’m looking away,
still the words that you say, and the way that you say,

and the hands that you lay, the space just melts away.

Look how it’s all been forgotten,
how we all forgot something again,
we are trying to grow up and we’re trying to grow old,
and we find ourselves right where we’ve been

before, there were so many answers
from the suit men erupting like fires,
so we stand in the face of the answer man
and the smoke and the jokes and the liars,

and the forests are burning like pyres.

Just as I need to turn toward you now,
just like your arms hold me tight,
and we make a new verse to replace this old curse
for the poets who’ve shown us the light.

See how I’m learning the same thing again,
and this might always be how it goes,
so we do it all over, except this time it’s better,
and the night comes again, and the light comes again,

thought I’d walked through this door, then discover there’s more.

In a moment last night, in the dust of a dream,
a vision through half sleepy eyes,
but real as the truth, or the words that you say,
or the voices of those who will rise.

With love on our side, between curtains flung wide,
a star cuts the sky like a knife
with a trail so bright it erases the night
as the mountain erupts like a fire,

and the heat of it burns like a choir.

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Another Opening

Thunderous release,
and the sky cracks

open with a planetary
climax. Fluid, we move

from hard places into
the softest places,

thirsty and blooming,
in all this dry dirt,

rejoicing the raindrops
and also the tears.

Peel

Today I peeled back
all manner of things:
white and wind-swelled
morning curtains for
the flood of copper sunlight
and also the speckled
sheath of one ripe banana.
I exposed the body inside
of a fresh tamale’s damp
blond husk, still warm
from the brick oven and
the soft hands of Francesca.
All day alone in the almost
rain, I peeled off my voice
and tossed it into the bin
with the banana shell
and the corn wrappers
(now there were three),
where they lay all tangled
into the flesh of each other,
a silent yellow homage
to the necessity of
opening.

Oyster

I have done my clinging
to the wild rocks
of the Atlantic,

made my shell
to withstand fierce tides,
the strong stuff of bone.

Love is a riddle
with the answer inside.
I am young and ancient,

salt and cell,
I offer you a taste
of what is in me,

current and swell,
morsel of an understanding
excites and terrifies,

you cannot deny.
It takes courage
to hold something so delicate.

I have no pearl,
though there are secrets here
within each fold

and ripple.
Open your lips
to the living ocean,

swallow me
until there is nothing
left between us, and cast my shell

into the never ending sea
where everything
and everything began.

On Breathing

Wild roots find earth and this is how we fly,
our bodies free beneath the weight of bone,
when hands rise up like wings, become the sky,
each sweet breath climbs us closer to the sun,
and ballast from these thoughts becomes the rain,
falls into each pain I’ve guarded from you,
my vessel flooded, cracks without refrain,
as what moves inside me, moves inside you.
The inhalation opens up the gate,
the exhalation tills the solid ground,
the in and out and in and out of it,
soft feathers on the wind the only sound,
and so near silence, all wings become one
as breath moves in and out and in again.