the bed

the bed is not
made where
they laid last night,
the covers holding
the passions like
air in the lungs
and i stand there
in a state of staring.

the next morning
came, of course,
the next conversation
over coffee came,
the next movement
around each other came.

i remind myself
of my worst self,
how the fullness of
life evaporates into
sin sometimes.

my lover and her
lover here in
this epic solitude;
i smell their serious
versions.

and i pretend to
not play with
pretense as the
light of the day is
shunned by a
drawn curtain.

or the bags on
the floor hold
within them the
story of another
calling.

or the carpet
upon which their
bare feet have
padded echoes
with secretive sounds.

or the pillows
dance askew and
and say the words
said in the balance
or counter-balances.

or the empty
bottle bans me
from tasting the
salt of lips.

this is a church
in its magnificent
silence and towering
prayers said in the dark.

what is so
unrecognizable
here?
the tangible is
not a metaphor
any more than
the river is when
i stand in it
up to my knees.

it is an
object to action
separation, really;
it is holding
no new hand,
kissing no new
lips, it is swallowing
no new windy word.

it is a bed
in a quiet room
and harbors no ill
will toward light
or dark; holds
no malice toward
head or heart.

i leave less
grieved and walk
among Douglas firs
and bowed birches
that have looked
down upon these
lovers with no more
affection and gratitude
than they do for me.

and in the bed
the covers remain
and the world outside
is moving and the next
morning came, of course,
the next conversation over
coffee came, the next
movement around each
other came.

with me.

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lovely receiver

my blanched smile,
scalded to slip off the
outer skins that have kept
me away.

i sit near a drafty
door in order that i
may calm the new fever;

the cold coming from
beneath the crack
is a spectral wash
in her reaching up-toward.

where is the calm
quiver i've come to
love so much,

but in the invitation
of your timid smirk,
your peculiar increase?

the pearl is there
waiting when my
lovely receiver sends
herself unguarded.

now there's an invitation
to lurk at her door,
peer into the color of grace

(or the sea, which
gives and takes likewise;
flowing with the lull of tides.)

say something here of
the predicate of good love,
i tell myself,

but come up empty-headed,
weak with the exertion
and lowered in my humility.

when you find someone
who receives you, you
have unearthed the stones
of the gods,

and the white-bright
pageantry of gifts
purchased by the balance
in the universe.

because, really, when
one receives one gives
if the intention is there.

to make oneself
vulnerable as the
conquered land -

to make oneself
inside-out and
exposed as the autumn
maple -

to make oneself
hold back the head
and put forth the heart -

is the mark of
a lovely receiver
who is free to fall
and fall fully.

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a road, at night, cold

i have a lover,
mutable in her dress
and bra, sitting
there with the
countenance of
the goddess of chance,
fate and fortune.

my lovely
tyche, she weeps
and then smiles
and goes back to
weeping, while
outside there is
something moving.

i would have her
held while holding
her; have her
loved while
loving her; have her
sung to while i
sing alone.

we met at the light
that cut the path
of darkness, caught
each other on an
intersecting plane;
a slice to the hands
and we bled together.

i am in her, as
much as she is in me.
our chambers are
guilty with it: this
passion of the deep
and willing limitations
of the flesh.

yet there is more.
always more; and
when you love a soul
you say to the rest
of the world that no
one thing can undo
the mystic's work.

she is in her winter
now; the dream-state
that calls for the
long-coming resurrection
so long as
i let the beauty lie
and not disturb the soil.

the Mother has taken
her in again, like every
year, and i stand alone,
waiting for the enslavement
to end so that i can
dance in her fields
soon.

i stand on a road, at
night, my feet
frozen to ghosts and
thoughts that won't
have leave of me, so
i must talk to myself
aloud, shaking.

the sky at night is
a friend of this type
of pass over, when
a man is yelling at
himself, at the woods,
at the unsolvable
sentence he's been given.

why must i push against
the evolution of lovers
when i accept the passing
of seasons? they are no
different, really. a violent
circle that rotates in
the womb of the Mother.

i have a lover,
mutable in her dress
and bra, sitting
there with the
countenance of
the goddess of chance,
fate and fortune.

my lovely
tyche, she laughs
and then sighs
and goes back to
laughing, while
outside there is
something moving.

cast my body into
the best of this night;
broaden my eyes to
let it fall upon me;
feel the presence of
god in the spark that
glows in her bosom

as she lies there,
buried in the Mother,
resting and curled
up, waiting for the
rise; accepting her
evolution, waiting for
the indisputable.

while this man stands
in his cold feet and
yells at the stars and
tells himself that all
good things loved are
best felt when loved things
are left to love.

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