The dream presaged meeting with powers
that took away birdsong
and replaced it with speech,
every nuance required to express the dawn executed
with a resounding note upon note:


we require more than a morsel
to sustain our day,
more than a memory to find
from where the next thing that enthuses us will arrive


we’ll combine effort
to accomplish everything one can’t do alone
and, as late night images appear darkly in a shadow,
gather to pronounce the birth of a new found moment
since one doesn’t realize what preceded it.


Nothing seems to promote an incentive to continue


what with the demeaning way I live


bread crumbs licked from the one plate,
pieces of cheese stored
for a week and grated on the same plate,
the recurring prayer uttered day in and day out:


“something to write about”


morning warming green,
shiny foliage
and a lemon


in the scent a vague imprint
of another tree superimposed on the new,
slightly alight,
a few leaves twisted by invisible fingers


when the sourness leaves the back of the throat
a pleasant astringency.


I am getting old,
every step a little more difficult
than a year ago,
the slightest chill works into my marrow


the deep blue line on the horizon,
forget-me-not eyes

I will sit under the window


cobalt in her paint box,
kingfisher’s wings


watch the light, dappled
and intense,
appear on the wall,
trust that no matter how far
from complete rest
I am at least able to reach out
and touch a glistening spiders web,
hear ancient lovers
who still hold out for kindness in the present
and talk to me
although they seem far away
and unconcerned
with the shadows creeping through my old house:


“We’ll appease chaos
with a kiss,
arrest the decline where mortals sense expulsion
from the world
and retard the growth of mould
with light apparent beyond the sun.”


For the third time this week
I have forgotten the name I was given,
whether I had a visitor
when the knock on the door faded


alone again,
despite the fact
I think the visitation in love
and joy really happened


although it seemed it could have been
before my sight faded:


“We chanced a time in furrows
so long
they never seemed to end,
leave our address


textures mimicking silken throated kestrels


we’ll take you someday.”


I hope someone else
will appear at the window,
align my grievance with the morrow
that hasn’t felt an inevitability to decrease
or cry
and recite the passage I think I’ll remember correctly:


“May you never see the wolf devour the kid
or the moon fall from the heights


diamantine pillars will hold the world up
till you step where you’re invited,
the brittle frame
that could shatter too easily
retain its shape




the door open to a smile.”