diamond light

after so much pressure,

so much endurance

this vision of divine love

that creates a human being,

that makes a child of a slave,

bestows an inheritance

within a crust of bread.

"Bead Buttons, Brooms and Nails.."

Not unlike the notions I keep on the sill
Against the slow grind of a stealthy sun
Whose circles are brooms flying
Carving wrinkles in a traveling sky

I am a secret resistance, as a day
Standing upright in a wind tunnel
As Time drawing a bead on circumstance,
And the high art of chance

Moonlight Sonata

Having no place to remain, we place ourselves
within each other, in hopes to lengthen the brief moment
of translation when we understood the language,
conversed freely in joy.

Our hearts transcribe each other; signals of salutations,
the form of a dance we so roundly turn, its taffeta
and gloves, it's polish and cologne; it's ragtime and gin
reserved for some other region, not the heart
whose language is still pure.

It is a lie to think of a blackened heart, a phrase we use to
describe something else entirely, something lost, not found,
something out of order, deprived of grace; depraved, for
depravity is not of the heart. No, if we knew the heart,
we'd understand the shining city on the hill.

Because it is not of the moonlight's glow across the dance floor
that we speak, rather it is she who speaks of us, as if we were her all,
as if we were suns upon which her face depended for her features,
else how could she be known?

There is no independent gaze, only the reflection of a singular
intent, as though angels in their dissipation needed some air to travel through
to practice their appearances. Soft blades bend in breeze, hills of sand
grow into mountain ranges. Mountains carve into shapes that are erased.

God speaks with the stuff of numbers that combine in infinite formulae,
a pure language of gesture, best described by lovers.
Everything that gives light is dependent on that which makes it shine.

Liberty

Singing onward,

a dull ache inside

the inner ear,

and a neck grown

past its natural length

from peering over

uncounted generations

of stonework

in bone corsets and

shifting hemlines,

from ankle to mid-thigh

to the decorative crotch.

She is an anachronism

from a future levee,

a dike built to shelter

a rumoured cosmos.

dike: a bank of earth formed of material being excavated

easter

When it comes to truth, who wants to believe it when it means giving up that comfortable sound..

Bach's eagle

He sleeps in me,

and dreams.

I move in subtle ways,

lending an ear, an arm.

He turns restless, at times, then

restive, obtaining both peace

and journey.

Blossoms recede beneath new boughs

and occasionally, a gardener comes

with his shears.

Branches bend and slightly shiver after

the weight of fruit falling, its only sound,

or birds, their brief encounter

this feathered song that takes flight

from a cradled egg that breaks like night.

O how he told me, showed me, the heart is made

of sticks and twigs lined with fuzz from its own down.

"As the modulation rises, so may the King's Glory.."

Bach, Canon per Tonos

Replete

As a living soul, I am replete

with silences

for the sake of my own history,

the aphoristic body I lose

for a moment,

or these moments,

marked by our voices.

And the voices sing, no longer

at the mercy of language,

with the chorus of the land somewhere, someplace,

outside the story-choked scape.

Something is seen, but one

doesn’t know what

because they behave not like

bodies,

but like weightless thoughts.