carried away in a flow of tears and blood
I place my brain on the dewy grass
where it lies, naked pink and shivering
like a newborn sparrow
crying for comfort.
But there is no comfort.
Only chilly death comes.
And then, devoured
by a stray dog.
In time, after my mind breaks down
it will flow into dog blood and fuel howls.
Then, as dog shit
my mind will feed dandelions.
Oh, to be dandelion fluff
carried on a summer night’s breeze
is my mind’s highest ambition.
The wind blows angry
In the lonely places
Where it is safe to rage.
Far from the city.
I hear her wailing.
For I wear her wrath
A threadbare cloak.
The evangelists say, the Breath of God
Is like a gentle Dove.
But to me, she’s a raven, consuming the dead.
Or a kestrel, seizing little living things in her talons
And eating them whole.
For the wind blows angry.
Keening in the night.
Giving voice to all who lament.
Whose hopes huddle in shadows.
These alone she comforts.
In deep morning
still dark and cool
I place my hand on my anchor tree.
My fragile skin rubs the rough bark
while my soul trickles from skin to wood
and slides down into the roots
where it kisses the soil.
I am planted there with that anchor tree;
It stands in my back yard,
It stood before there was a back yard.
It remembers, so I remember.
We share mysteries from beneath the surface,
Under the damp grass.
And as the breeze plays with our limbs,