the half light

the half light

            calls

                your throat the

       black horizon,

                         name    dissolving

salty

                                on            my       tongue.

  your incubator chest

               hums

            new songs      

              into my 

            fingertips.

do that again. 

rumble   all   delicious

                             low

                                    &

                                        sweet

                                                …

I will follow

          the fluid air                   the thrumming wings 
                      

                        the graveled honey     

              trapped

between

                 the ridges  

of  my skin

                        traveling                your skin

                                                                                                to north

                                                                        to breathe        the earthy        thunder

                                                                                                rolling        from

                                                                                                                         your

                                                                                                                                    lips.

Trivial

from borrowed sheets
you watch the stripes of light
and light’s retreat
slide slatted ’cross the fan blades,
the unexpected billow of a curtain.
all the aching voices quit their moans.

a wilting clover bargains on the doorstep.
the ceaseless water runs beneath the bridge.
a pebble shaped like Earth lies snug
in a child’s eager palm,
while under her feet
the mammoth world is turning fast enough.
  

Everyday Fictions

Once upon a time,

it begins,

always.

Then words start to tumble out

to fill transparent shells of people,

outlines drawn by outlines, scratched or carefully devised –

we tell stories.

We bring others into being.

What else can we do?

It begins the same,

always,

even when we step into the middle

and risk scribbling on a masterpiece

or forcing endings that do not belong,

when we cannot know –

are we heroes or villains, foils or clowns? --

when our characters will not behave

[the bears bewildered find that Goldilocks has barred the door;

the ugly duckling chases children, never trusting his reflection]

We yell some stories

to drown out other tellers,

some we whisper, some relinquish,

some we hide.

No tale is yours alone.

No tale is always true.

But we build new narratives, ever bolder.

Gentler, maybe. Kinder ones;

we let Goldilocks tell her side,

and we believe her.

We begin again,

the same, again.