If your heart was a book

Wish me lost
in the ruined bindings
of your sunbathed heart.

Love would be an unwoven thread:
a trail of words
in the voiceless margins:

Lost fellow
you are more
than your beauty–
you: the unraveled
island of pages
I hope to know
and know without knowing:
changeless change–
always the same
madness, so beauty.

I stay only by your hand,
though I wish to stay:
wish to tell you now

this island is a bridge
to my own–so when I ask
what color blushes

in my heart, you can know
it is green: green
like the eyes of Odysseus,

searching for his island home.
And if our two worlds expire,
by time yellowed pages, and pages to come,

I will sail again alone
into that nightmare of history,
record in hand,and live to know

I loved you.

Forward Shadow

The dreamless monarch rears her wings:
dark-dark radiant eclipse
reveal your forward shadow.

I’ll follow without figure:
perform your heart before you
in monochrome glass

and convince you of yourself
beyond the half-light
in the lucid prism of a dream.

In the scattered darkness,
I reveal myself segmented:
the half-dark, milk-less weed

and cardiac clay reformed
to your selfless figure–
that love we share between us.

When we awake, the sun
will bear our recognition
eclipsed as two shadows

in one heart, or fall
away into division:
two wings pulled apart.

False Mirror

Image is not creation.
It is the disarmed soul:
the uncovered silk and bare
skin of desire’s seduction.
It is memory reversed–
the space transforming itself,
translating the soul’s momentum
forward into resemblance.
It is the collective mirror,
binding us in common
displacement and origin:
the deflected census
of a pupil’s ecstasy.
It is the dueling mind:
the sharpened expression
and dull deformity.
It is the bond reformed
and the breakaway.
It is love:
life out of life
and its grave confusion.
It is self transfigured–
the admittance of a place
and time without presence.
It is my own unclean lips
feigning an embrace:
of poetic distance
longing for a Eucharist.
It is you: the dream
of two suns uneclipsed
and the doubled embrace.
It is the tangible sense,
the world on a string,
and yet it remains
all I cannot make real.

Coin Toss

Take the road and empty your coins
marry the exchange between
stone and unbound silver.
If the line is placed
retrace those hidden steps
to a wounded fountain.
In the flurry of sunken pool
the faces will speak blows
the blood all determined.
It will trace itself forward
again to the unyielding
moment and you will know
the toss reeling
by the motion of spiral
your freedom on a tilt.


Now is the surrender of a moment:
of lucid amnesia both rooted, free.
It is self without claim–
marrow built in rapture, sorrow.
It is baptism held at breaking:
surface born and drowning.
It is radical indifference, love
in marriage and remission.
Now is the confession yielding,
and its realization all over.


I wish we could speak
like secrets among trees.
I’d tell you how love
is like a leaf descending,
and how, in falling,
you never seem to fall.
Love is like the Earth,
you’d say, rising to meet us.
We are the drift
and destine to it.
I’d ask how close?
Close enough to witness,
to remark the way
the wind peels
and breath crumbles.
You’d ask how far?
Far enough to see
your lips vacant, wanting
in that breathless tune:
masking words beneath
your blinking eyes, waiting
to taste the same.


I remember how it felt
to be eclipsed:
that place apart,
of no division.
Where reflections were unframed portraits,
tuned to a love both dimension and body.
To arrive was to be overtaken:
to bleed a moment in feeling
beyond your fallen self.
To be swept, unformed
like a mess of clouds,
and arrive nowhere again.
It is here that I know you still.
That place of parting roads
that sings your voice.
Here, I become that
which must be taken.
I live within it,
rising and joining.
We are not that
which we were before.
And with that fatal
breath of longing,
we depart.