I gave love back to the universe, and
all the marrow I scooped from the sun
I returned to the sun and kept the cold
rock of the moon.
I wound every smile back
into the skein.
A beautiful dinner that night:
all hen-of-the-woods and morels,
chanterelles and I lost myself in the saucepan,
still heart for a moment during the strange,
gray May spring.
Missing a thing defies the entire landscape
and is blasphemous in no worthy way.
Yet my bones sing the tired ache,
I'm real down and out,
I wipe dust from my eyes
and consider my keeper.
I have poison thoughts that taste
bitter and half-cooked, like
Love is a big dam exploding
and nothing good happening.
And as time confesses,
I see that it's true:
Much is fluky,
maybe unavailing, all in flocks
and scattered showers,
The sky-the bird,
the cloud-the need,
like a past poet said.
I remember that bird, looking up at my
lingering face as it died in my hands
soft and tiny.
I am not your woman,
not your fox hole, belong to nothing
but the roaring vacuum,
nothing but the scream of
wind the only embrace for the poorest.
Poor poor soul,
wishing for unintelligible extravagances.
Knives stuck in hides.
I will be in San Simeon soon,
to gaze down on the rookery of seals.
Fully bereft of all but the present-
full galed, full upright.
I have feared all the changes-
I've dreaded the mornings,
I've needed more rations
than the rations
past is a volume on a high shelf
but I am tall and sometimes too tall.
Brave and sometimes too brave,
asking the earth to offer equal,
time and long drive crease my palms,
love I am your ally always.
my heart of scrimshaw