sunlight welds the rusty horizon
to the birdsong in our blood
to fill our mouths with clocks
and trampled gusts of wind
that sages ignore for ripened fruit
and the pleasure of memory
lost to stones of an un-
excavated well captivated
by the slight passage of time.
the ocean dreams in clouds
and speaks in wind to the eyes
of our hands leaving runic scars
of now and not yet like songs
of travel on the backs of deer
inscribed on glass panels
to make memorial the entrance
of invisible caves where death
is the stirred air of bees
whose wings are fingernails
dipped in tears.
and I am a locust about
to bring my earth to your
calloused lips bent around
the iron rod of your hammers
driven into muted bells strung
like the beads of your spine.
wooden bells that swallow rain
to nourish hellbent poison
blackened by coal old as
the crow’s empty wings
and the mare’s bottomless eye
turned inward on the source
of hollow whispering labyrinths
inside dawn-touched shells.
this bandage of teeth asks
nothing of the blossoming stars
but the simple promise of the next
breath-lit moment.
I ask in excess the silence
of footsteps falling from the sky
what drywood can I force
my way into burying-motive that I am
inside this green-leaved skull
woven by a child whose
laddered hands dissolve
in the mirrored reach of my prayer.
tell me again the unbroken name
the hulled sap of the name you
want me to forget that it may
burn to air on my charred wick
and pass with the multitudes through me
like semen scorched in the galvanized womb.
poverty hardens these muscled gestures
dancing in quilted skins between us
to mock our hunger that cracks ribs
cold-forged with ringing hammers
echoed in the heartbeat
that pulverizes into starlight
the blind note I carry
unwritten to the song
of this light-stamped horizon.