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Holy in the Infinite

Month

June 2014

I Never Cool

I Never Cool (6.20.14)

 

I am not like July

with all of its hasty temperament

and fireworks.

I am not volatile.

It turns out

I am as patient as August,

still as Sunday afternoon,

languid, muffled,

muted

humming,

humid and steady,

and each night restless.

I never cool.

And when it comes time,

when I have nothing to burn

I turn inwards, thundering,

and set my own sky on fire,

and hope departs

like ravens

in cool September nights.

Luminary

Luminary (6.17-18.14)

I would light lanterns
for your footsteps
a candle for every
dip of your spine
a lamp for every sigh
every shift in your sleep

I would ignite pillars
pyres
simply to illuminate
the arch of your cheekbone
in the darkness
to see myself reflected
in your eyes
I would bear torches
simply to witness
where the bones
in your wrists
taper

I would light every votive
of every alcove
of every catacomb
of every church
to keep vigil by your side
each night
but don’t all the angels
already choir your name
each morning?

My desire overwhelms my fear
to find myself
in your hurricane
to taste the heat of the storm
the lightning on your skin.
I would burn myself
over and over again
on our match.
The smoke,
the embers of you,
leave me smoldering

I would walk this endless
hallway
pausing every few steps
to light another sconce
along the walls
so when I finally found you
behind the last closed door
you would be welcomed
with all the light
I could find

 

Pieces of Me

Pieces of Me (6.9.14)

 

I did not come here

with any intention of leaving

intact

I wanted to loose myself

scatter my pieces

like dust

like leaves

like blossoms on

cherry trees

 

I always thought

I would like to go in the fall

when everything is on fire

like you and I were

 

everything is cool

and damp in the evenings

in the fall,

like you and I were

 

maybe,

like those fiery trees,

you could see

how absolutely glorious

it could be

to let dead things go,

like I was,

and you weren’t

 

maybe spring isn’t too bad

for a time to go

everything moving

forward

into

newness

like you are

and instead of turning

to dust and decay

like the fall

and I could move

to newness too

in blossoms

that lay

gently

on sidewalks

 

the pieces of me

there

to blanket the ground

you walk on

with beauty

 

so there will always be

flowers beneath your feet

and so that

the blossoms will scatter

and

as you walk

under the shade

of new trees

years from now

that grow from my pieces

you will always

remember me

as you feel the

roughness of the

tree bark

against your back

and the spring breezes

shift the blossoms

away

once more

 

and you will remember me,

not with yellow leaves,

but

with the new trees

 

showering you

with pieces of me

How Is Your Shadow?

How is Your Shadow? (5.28-29.14)

 

How is your shadow?

Your other half,

born of light,

that walks with you,

day in, day out,

but abandons you

in darkness.

 

How is your shadow?

Your companion,

your oldest friend,

the only thing that hasn’t changed

since the delighted discovery as a child,

who holds all your secrets,

but then hides its true nature

when called to attention

at noonday sun

when you are most exposed

and you rise alone

with no one but heat at your back.

 

How is your shadow?

When you stand

in the illumination of day,

as bright and clear as you’ve ever been,

it gives you away.

it reminds you still,

your darker side,

ever present, no escape,

no matter where you turn.

 

The year sprawls into warmth

and your shadow

stretches out ahead

in infinite wonder

taking advantage

of the summer’s languid evening light

reclining, resting in high grasses

and then longs, lengthening its spine,

to tangle in the orange and yellow trees

of autumn

before winter comes and it is blown away

leaving you to the blustering anguish

of shorter days and colder nights

 

How is your shadow?

That trickster.

The play of light,

on the walls

from the palms of your hands

shifting back and forth

like the most delicate wings on a breeze.

 

How is your shadow?

The bearer of knowledge,

the reminder that all is

impermanence and change.

How is your shadow?

Simply an echo of who you were

a split second before it changed

and you began again.

Do you change at the speed of light?

Your shadow,

comes and goes,

but you can rest, always,

rest in my shade.

 

How is your shadow,

your balanced reflection,

the blackness

that takes the light in your eyes,

proving your existence

verifying the validity of your body.

But vanishes, proving you solitary,

as dark as night,

in the night,

never truly in tandem

with another

when you lay to rest.

 

How is your shadow?

The ultimate,

intimate purveyor of the ancient wisdom,

the honest constant of sunrise and sunset.

But truth lies

for how could something

so constant and true

remain so intangible

and disappear

when you turn to show

yourself to the sunlight.

But truth lies,

for how could something

grace through your fingertips

when you reach out to touch it,

though you can clearly see it

in front of you,

no matter how you long to feel it?

 

Tell me,

How is your shadow?

Tell me,

how could something

born of light

be so dark?

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