a visit at the river

.





our feet dangle into a silver-slip of minnow

we belong here
with the living things; the blue
heron
the wild carrot

light air clangs; metal to rock





in this dream there are
no black flies, no standard issue belt, no urine soaked chair to place at the road

there is only this great-green space, these familiar waters

and our mirrored hands postured behind us

because i know i am dreaming;
i think in questions only the dead could answer

in a language only this side of the truth would speak

but before the asking
before the deconstruction or burst of light


my mother's eyes shift
change to shapeless wooden things

and her mouth turns a river
filled blackest-black where words are forgotten

and syllables displaced
in a sloppy muck of rock and silt


















m

is it a june storm or my mother's final breath

.












black tar lays flat and long

in the lifeless crease of a slam-shut mouth


inside the dark, open spaces of night




somewhere beneath the crack of thunderhead
and light



a kill-hum

hums. tall grasses bend


and an old tree splits
into the open-faced shock

of daisy- white life

















m

the stillness of passing

nothing moved
not time
nor wintered geranium, dormant in the pot

I slept the dead. inside a stone white cupboard;
feet raised on cement block

door propped

and partly fallen



i slept





a note to him

who is important:

do you remember when you were the bone shaping my skin?








on a metal table
in a different year
cold flakes
floated


curdled in a bowl








but for heavy hands

lacing lug boots
everything was quiet

in those days

men were gods








before bone piled silent
she was a blue sweater

the art of a raised window

the song of linen










i slept the incantation

the loud bang
the shadow stalking my bed


and when a voice called my name
i slept it

too





















m

the god reach

sunrise
he says


is clouded


but for two clear openings

letting light





















m