love must be

What if the Lord of Days is a fish with a blank eye
blinking
in cool silver?
What if the grand October fire is a dead mouse
humbled
in burnt leaves?
What if the soft fever of our bodies is a limp wind
rattling
in cupped longing?
If the heart has teeth and
smiles
in small sentences,
then love must be a veil of crumpled silk
fluttering
over hard apples.

GeoTagged, [N33.02570, E101.98377]

Quietly into the West.

old machines

When did the mind become
a paper ship
unfolded
failing heavily
among slick rocks?

We understood the way the wood was folded
through the brass.

The simpler machines.

The children playing games their bodies would interpret
in their parents' clothes
while sunlight
in blue windows
made them thirsty.

But now our Icarus is ancient
and he cracks
beneath a momentary moon;
beneath the hard weight of a rider
who inhabits his bruised courage
as he falls.

We fill our cups with orchids
while we talk about creation
and the cold miracle of
subtraction.

We sleep and bathe alone with winter and
old tea
while on the lawn
the blades of grass fail beautifully
together.

The Rock and the rainstorm