everywhere, this hour
forget the blooming passion,
the hour is flowered.
your mouth there
was just so slowly opening.
maybe gently forced
by the shrug of love
and the tug of wine.
open, and so close . . .
but now it must be closing.
the closing of which is
the wind inside the word.
turning breath of god
be a phantom in the shade,
the silence before the sound
anything might disturb that sleeping mouth,
blowing open the doors of the dead.
so lean upon these beads,
and walk among the wild
whispering words.
but also know that you might
be wandering in the winds
study this eagerly earned discontent,
the unformed thing it is,
unformed thing that it was.
the empty space still remains,
so it may force an overstep
or a sidestep to avoid the rushing winds,
the blind breeze between the gods.
do you know the strength
of missing kisses ?
how their shadows cast night to day
tonight, today
just behind this look, or that.
removed from a mouth in motion,
stolen, then broken from the myth of image.
see how kisses are robbed of their
tender powers
and merciful mystery ?
these words will not rest the restless
or have the nerve to swim alone in blackness,
from shore to shore,
to split the chanting darkness.
with this warning of the waves
goes the slow echoes of the oceans
how quickly we slipped from the hour that held us
the one we never belonged to,
we even finished the very minute.
had we held the end so imperative ?
held it close,
and so, so sacred.
now what in this world can we call real ?
half forgotten promises,
or the passing of a premise:
we were just the tourists in the temple
were it possible I might have
turned into the wind.
or learned from, it’s careful breath
perhaps earned in time its trust.
so possible in fact I might have even
sung one song
with my
heart
in half.
for weeks wandering
among these dumb unsung syllables
uttering my usual nonsense,
endlessly battering the earth’s every ear
mute, but gestured with instinct
and quiet, we heard those whispers in the wind
the winds that blew right through us,
brought to us by fires,
born by seeds so sour
yet still scarred by
silly and silent flames
hour by hour, day by day
the gods are growing younger.
how we slipped through
their cruel unknowing fingers.
we fell too deep into the
far nadir of nowhere
where are the instant moments where we were ?
where is that dashing moment
when you whispered,
here I am ?
these little words might add up to nothing . . .
a gust inside the ghost
their senseless sadness says only,
I am here, I am here . . .
you knew that lonely
whisper in the wind,
with the force of falling waters.
the task of loving,
with the task of being loved.
rain falls, rain runs
not all flowers are blue . . .
but warmth be stone
and warmth be sun.
this hour upon me has been
blowing down the doors of the dead.
this hour is everywhere
and still it can’t be found.
listen now,
but next time know ...
just rise, and go without a sound.
s.c. 4/23/00
.
