shriven

verb:
to have received the confession of; to have imposed penance on; to have granted absolution to

interior

dancing now on the sill,
rain enters my life
when i don’t want the books
standing there to get wet.

or the envelopes with names
that don’t belong here anymore.
i wipe them too off the wood
with my palm, and the sensation
stays cool on my skin.

i am this place. its rooms
hung like webs between the walls.
doors that don’t shut all the way
and fingers cold with wind
closing them once more.

paper, wood, brass handles and
knobs, these surfaces perform
necessary roles. if it stands,
what more does a house need.

when i was young and small

when i was young and small
and heat fell into me at high speeds
the decision came from somewhere
outside me to calm the surface
gentle shepherds rose like steam
flocks falling over and again
as the heavy sky once did
but soft and smoother

in blue

blue cloak blue shadow blue
patron saint of blue
stigmata weeping blue
feed me your spectra and i
blue will recover

flood cleansed the sacred
precinct today. tiles shone,
pillars radiated harmonies.
light caught everything
at its xenith
(which was, incidentally,
       blue.)

no scales weigh this
no serpents curl their tails
striking heat with irises
slit and probing like a tongue
take it before
night slips deeper blue
pre-waking

run.
mongrels steal shadow-
like beneath the parapets
pitter patter feet slip-
shod crack the fortress
open like eyes flashing

because, clean again
a round blue number
heralds its own becoming. trumpets.
choirs circular and forward
moving. all the arches resound
with their empty red hands
offering to the blue floor
echo chambers of
stiffening skin

7YD

composed primarily of water
ice comet 7YD
unwraps itself in the tapering sunlight
and renews its studied course west
where there is no west
blue-white where there is no eye
to see it fall

this is
dangerous, i sd
to her then,

the hands
of my speaking self
before me—

‘but’ or ‘and’ is
the question—we
lay in the heat

of curved un-
certainty, all lines
gone—

don’t know, i sd,
or racing
back now

same heat same
hands give me
the form i

will sign for anything

this

this is the rage
i give scraps at dinner
looking everywhere
but at you

this is the wound
whose bandages i change twice daily
and pus i wear in streaks
as warpaint

this is the meaning
you would not
could not recognize though it stared you in the face
and brought you flowers

this is the karmic debt
you have accrued over several lifetimes
and follows you to bed
and you lie alone

this is the seed
of destruction i try to tweeze
from my blood in vain
our race is welded to its ruin

this is the vein
of obsidian that runs in crags
through the core of my soul
and am fault lines

this is the wall
i strove to build and have failed
crumbling next to you
a master mason

Snow in the Canyon.

Snow in the Canyon.

you [fragment]

you erode the pillars upon which
this fragile universe sleeps

proof

Circling, we stand the stillest still. Geometry
is the inscription of distance and sameness he says.
△ABC is congruent with △WHY.
There is a distance here between them
that doesn’t matter, here they happen
only to be on the same page.
When does the distance to △WHY matter
I ask.

He frowns and dances. The parameters
of your question are too wide he says.
Bound them.

If line AB is parallel to line WH,
line HY cannot be parallel to line AB, I say.
He crooks his knee, miming a plié.
Sameness of direction holds across all
distance he says.

Does it
I say.