I am as tall as a blade of grass

and close to perfect for noise making

With tenderness standing at the edge of my tongue


Who goes there?

Pale turrets lined with yellow ladders jut out from the tops of trees blurred by my own flight

No! Not marred!


How could it be that I am sliding down into the same hidden pocket of orange clay lining the

river from my childhood while I’m tearing out fistfuls to slap onto a large flat rock?


I sail off in a wicker beetle shell and

for four days I live in a valley.



Winter in our underwater grave:

Let us make a bridge of specialness

Out of the shrill things we find

For blasphemy

like a treasure map marked

by a greasy crayon


Those are really our strides in the snow

but lacking concern for marks-the-spot

Spots bloom all over in the likeness of angels


Calling upon spectators to

offer up their own glass showcase

of fragmented shadow


As the old Queen raising her hand

to the birdcatcher

Whispers

No, that is not the song I seek.



Now little orange creeks two inches wide carve out against the real river and disappear into the wonder of opaque murk only to appear again behind three red curtains that tower above and reach into an infinite sky opened up by a snarling sighing jeering beauty flat against my memory.



While phantom rain pelts our heads

Oh, ecstasy

Behind phantom gates

Oh, truth

Watch the globe shatter

And be still

And stand