The morning light maintains cell memory
and I’m settled into one with its energy,
cohesive, integrated, silent. There’s a
personal sense of security that whispers,
dismantling my defenses, shattering the
the walls of self-protection, leaving me
vulnerable, exposed to the apex of love
where your voice floats out from clouds
caressing away the coldness of winter.
It’s been a long time since we’ve talked.
I guess I’ve been too even-tempered, too
levelheaded to believe you were always
there. In my heart you were the nowhere
man that spoke in secret code about the
endless knots of hope that gives flight to
dragonflies in dreams, when it’s over, when
nothing matters but fatigue and expressed
You’ve been inarticulate in my life for quite
awhile, but now you have a hold on me; our time
includes memories of all proportion, many I’d
like to soon forget; but the limbs of the Earth
are extended in spirals that want to unbend
reaching out to me when I’m barely hanging on.
Stricken by the reflection of you in the brightest
of skies, they start to unravel, keeping me
from falling and I understand the nature of your
poetry. I can capture joy and sorrow with the ease
of keystrokes; my point of view can be the perfect
inspiration or the perfect parting shot. I can put
to rest all the rumors that stir without substance,
or incite them just by being different. In a single
glance the outlines can change from the gesture of
magic to grass blades aflame with man’s mortality.
In my stories there are angles of smoldering pinks
to gentle grays,
splashed among the winds slow to show gratitude,
as I’m erased. In my apocalyptic vision I see
everything simultaneously through near death,
like some formula that’s lost its relevance. Sometimes
I think my imagination has let me down, and I’m
unreceptive to its return. What message is it that you
want me to deliver? I have felt you in every horizon!
Forgive my Godless stances of the past, I now know, it
was your poetry I was missing; you, my Lord and Savior.