Here where the ground opens gaps in thinking.
You know. The “X” on the grid—
cages at times, the wrought-iron cell, restricts closure.
Water thrown skyward spins frozen sparrows—
their wings snaring glints of light, glistening ice, layered iridescent,
summoning the lost sun home into memory’s wingspan.
The morning before yesterday’s morning—
a day I can’t catch in the silver fish net I sewed
with teal opalescent thread throughout the long night of hushed confusion,
so I could watch the platinum angel fish—watch me,
their black flattened eyes, coins of an ancient fallen city
that can no longer purchase the sea’s reflection—
an etched dream morphed into massive rock, obsidian,
clinging frozen—earth slanting into sink holes—
and I couldn’t reach the wind’s ethereal canvas.
I was attempting to ballet dance with syllables,
sculpt the elusive quarter-moon, represent
the tumbling snow on an oleaginous surface
shifting solace away from itself,
the crisp winter air ripping through my dwindling skeleton.
Did you happen—to see me?
The “I”s have it.
We must all confess—to imperfection’s diligence
charting ingrained woes in chalk against obscurity—
inviting the ghosts of the house—who erase our words—
jealous we can speak them.
Their shrinking eyes follow from revolving door to door—
Room to room of Russian dolls, Chinese boxes
of our callous obsessions.
Their thick eyelash-fringe, onyx velvet cilia, garnering dust.
Threadbare—invocations to bruised gods disintegrate
when they touch your dry, paper-thin lips
that no longer taste the sea’s perfection.
Yes, that was me on the mountain plateau—
waving a white sheet—flag—
conceding to fate’s uncertain footage.
That was me—beseeching thousands of shards—of intricate star
to save me—and You and you and you and yours—
and those hiding in corners to garner—answers
cradling the frozen sparrow until it thaws for burial.
Listen—these things happen.
These things tell us about ourselves.