>untitled 08052010720

>Sometimes, memory
is calling what is not:
broken series, the
unashamed oak
peppermill, or
syncopation: all
a thing & not-thing.

There we are
at the shore
of ourselves
getting ready
to swim.

>Improv for Sarah, 080420102113

>I’m at the edge of things
all of me, unafraid
and the edge even so the edge
flexes so a brave thing
might
sail beyond where it betrays laughter
like a heavy weight adds ply
mistakenly sings me, this withering
bloom and another thing to swallow
the rye & pitching sail, free to spite
black ribbon drawn to the spool
beyond pupil, beyond discernible will

I’m at the edge of things
half of me, afraid of what’s come

Hand’s blade a threat, the promise of waves
so flat & calm, salts across
and across again
again

The brave thing returns
again the rush question
rising and with a beg
in hand pleads a waxy
whip up back behind an ear
the eyes whispers as in sleep
rips, rips a heart into the ribbon

(and) I’m at the edge of things
remembering the edge of things
(and) where I stand.