Untitular

Does it all sink back to earth again,
These thrumming, violent tendons of truth
That pick and weave their routes through us?

If only languid language might make a place for me in her heart;
I could dust, make dinner, maintain house.
I am not so bad at it.

But yet the thing eludes.
Is the thing a thing at all?

On days buoyant I might bob just so
And keep a level head remembering
The world is always three parts -

Above, below,
And here.

Hailstone Mind

At night there comes the hooded thing

The thing of dark - of winter bright 

Alone I sit and wonder at it as I have so often prior  

This thing of brooding malcontent, this thing of cold desire 

This thing of broken lust I trust it not? I trust it dire    

These scars are all I have of you so let me love them true  

In wanton heat now glowing I find my time unflowing and the 

Rhyme now grinding down like black space falling inward like
Your atmosphere you stuck me like a pig a piece of cloth a rusting
Cog and now we fly to meet who made this grin like you believe in him and hope