Skip to main content

Things stripped away float home

In finely grained nonchalance,
a subtle evolution has split me open.
I rise from leathery exuvia,
latest chapters lived and sorted.

Home, misty morning webbed in
lapis lazuli and down, unveils its still life:
mater familias, black coffee, first fire - in silence
to hold my reverence for half past four.

Jupiter has entered Scorpio, melts me together.
Love wants to return, every chapter and verse
gentled within my fault lined family. Collected -
a bitter biography to galvanize me,

an old hen to hunker down, wait out the storm,
water snakes to wrap my wounds, an itching heart.
I’ve built a rugged gravity of warts and tears, it
waxes like neap tide - things neglected are still ballast.

These tiny shells of forgettable days crunch underfoot - I
have sand in my teeth, and fruit heavy in easy reach.
Here is a cloud bank of dawn along the horizon -
pink and florid. A universe to unfold me, a new skin.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.