From The Throats of Angels

In the dark leafy close mountains 

there are more ways than one 

to get somewhere 

and I am sure we are not going 

in and out of focus 

for no reason at all


There must be something 

That hides in there

A feeling anyway

Of love and loss


And so I take my heart from my chest 

in a triumphant gesture 

and look at its glistening meatiness 

in the quiet of my grief 

and I can say 

it does not look like this 



That in between 

someone will have a reason 

to wrap arms 

gauze bandages 

flower essences 

tribal tattoos from the vending machine in the supermarket in Joshua tree 

around me 


There is some soft light 

and a good feeling 

of being together 

and knowing 

the quiet 

the way 

to consider 

the silence 

as speech


Me you and what we want 

unfolding in between 

Our grey hairs multiplying 

and the folds of flesh 

piling up in the creases 

and to remind us of mountains


And that memory has no volume 

and slides and shifts 

only occasionally taking up space within me

In the form of architecture 

In the form of the architecture 

of dreams


For I am as always house haunted 

and there I am again 

thinking of place 

and how extraordinary it would be 

to find a place 

to build a bit 

in the stars 

in the sea 

in the forest 

in the river


That you and me are here 

to be aware 

and think out loud 

in picture form 

and try to show 

and share 

the rising 

unsettling notions 

of multiplicity


And this is why I sing to the trans and the poly and the multi


But further and further yet we need to go.


To sliding in and out of meaning and of knowing


If only to recall 

in brief 

and unpredictable moments 

the strange light that emanated 

from the throats of angels

tall as towers 

that picked you up 

and tossed you with joy 

back and forth 

as if a toy 


and you remember this to me in the shivering dark of our little house by the sea.