Cups Constant

We cannot keep a city past the rest,

with rising rafters plastered higher yet.

Great gates and guns restrict the passage best,

so aim them West. Let fire break this net.

Use savior like a length of braided lines

tied high. He cascades the neck on the drop.

Display the body past the spraying pines,

left clean from drips as sand-buffed shells, thin plops

on feathered shores. Brushed past by dense water

alone, to fill and pour as cups constant.

And we are breezes of wales. Ceaseless daughters

left scattered to drag our feet in sand.

We build and we stack high

around this land like stalling night.

(Fall '10)

Remembering Spring

You sapped the shades from roses,
stripped the bark off trees,
left faces and cities twisted in ice
to bend sunlight to your sky.

If we brush shoulders on a lamp-lit street,
keep the pictures inside your pocket.
Their traces can never sketch our portrait
in the dirt left under our feet.

When we speak, give me reprieve;
let my Earth spill with light.
Lift up your foot, its sole ragged and torn,
and hurry your pace through the night.

We could be altered then.
Your face the scent of dust.

(Fall ’08)

Hidden Skyline

She stands at the edge
watching those below.
They rush toward picnic benches,
for places in line.

She lays her hands on
the cool guardrail,
feels her nails click
on the metal bar.

Buildings stand tall before her.
Streets collect wind from
the ocean, the smell of salt
and the dampened air is
a crisp apple on her tongue.

Neon signs create a blurry luminescence,
change faces into impressions.
She imagines they are spirits,
beings searching for a final
parking lot.

(Fall '08)

Exchanges

stretched over railing

free to sky,

rock monoliths and

humming street lights

I, a peak

in held time;

drawn heat       as smoke released

                       to mingle;

birdgirl moves close behind,

                                               embraces

                                       exchanges heat

rests her cheek on my shoulder

 and sighs

with countless beings,

lights and air,

opened air

I am far and

                                intensely here

where sky holds


(Fall '10)

Pressure

A break in concrete
is a wave through mountains,
like feathers of silt carried on
past the station.

Layered granite presses
the soil,
its weight chokes like smoke
flooding the subway.

Say the ground aches,
say my thoughts bake to the afternoon's rhythm.
Our wheels are not the measure,
and slick-dressed businessmen press behind me.

Here, like so much corner noise, I stand
watching the smiling scars and sunshine.
They smolder as they speak. They are not a river,
far from a cooling wave.

(Fall '08)