dearest

as if i were

a self-planting furrow,

layers of deep earth

folding in over themselves:

in the warmth, i feel,

like your eyes,

rich as dirt.

one time i weeded on an aunt's farm:

the fineness of that soil

it got everywhere. and its moisture.

in the sun it looked deep and endless.

and when touched, it was warm

even in the dark places

warmed only by the sun.

how much warmer i

under your regard?

dearest

self-furrowing, these sloughs i dig

through skin.

i vision myself as dirt,

ploughed, the motion of heat in air.

the hot taste of essence-laden breath

hhhhh from upturned earth,

the grinding of the plough.

bah! you were never all i wanted,

veronica.

to turn you inside out,

magma spilt and roiling, blazing surface like a sun

hot on the tongue, eyes stretching,

each eyelash suddenly irradiate,

cheeks scored with fire

under the pressure

of that hot vision--

white to black like the plough of a scream through a throat

and vision a blank and sacramental taste:

veronica, i make myself your earth.

(lover, i hold out my hands and

nothing comes into them.

lover, i hold out my hands and

nothing

comes into them.)

dearest

thickset stalks of memory

fold against each other,

something improbable

slithering between

the upright sheaves.

i weave my image

with broken thread

and i weave with

sounds like

cold glass breaking

in heat. so that

it shimmers

so that

i need not

see

the thing

that waits

for the harvest

to show.

dearest

these pathetic ways i hurt myself, still,
the eternal apprehension of death
an excuse to keep myself up all night.
i spend the hours admiring the city's private spill of stars,
immediate enough to tongue, the reflected street lights
in the rainslick on the pavement,
light
a nocturnal emission.

to care for oneself is
terrible, unsettling
as the bone-husband
of Persephone.
biting down on the seed,
juice
exploding
as if juice were light
from the microcosm
of the street, just as inept
as this body
at keeping
dry,
and as
inept
at rest.

dearest

something about the way
the shell works,

the infinity of the shell,
the shell's rest,

lies split
on sand,
and what was within

goes shaking, slithering, dragging
itself
from moment to moment,
from tide to tide.


i looked inside--
forceless and infinite
i found the tide

i dug myself down--
hey down a down
past the shell to the bone
and in this deep night,
dearest, i claim you

vanesa
it was you i loved
vanesa
i name you.

dearest

and was it so
bad?

when you ended
up
with such smooth
fingers, your
mind
a merry
oyster

and glistening
within,
the pearl?

tell me, you, have i
never expressed my
gratitude?
through teeth chipping
and yellow like
old paint
have i
really never
really never
when the night has come
and the land is dark
and the moon is the only light we'll see
no i won't be afraid
no i won't shed a tear
just as long as you
stand by me
stand by me

dearest

something
i had dug
through
for

down past
what had seemed
impenetrable

through
solid

or what had seemed solid.

i dug two holes through it
and wore it
like a mask

i had dug
through

to see you.

the gold was
veronicate:

something i filled
something i
pressed

pressed my face
into

dearest

you realize that you're just going to have to do it all over again:
it began with a thought.

there was a cloudburst; there were sieves; there was a screaming thing.

there was the ever-present smell of eucalyptus.

and i thought, i dig my hands into the dirt and i dig up an explosion and

for what?  and for what? 

and for what did i give
you up?

dearest

there was something off
about the turn of my feelings for you.
as if you were the knife
i used to slice myself a door
walk into my heart and
carve carve carve.

deep in the hearth of me,
there was a reckoning made
between stone and fire.
i did not wish to hurt
the image of you, not even
with the tiniest breath
of heat...nor to betray
the stone of myself
with anything like hope.

then i was angry at myself
for loving you, until
my stone heart cracked and
the fire poured out.

deep in the cavern of me
is a coin,
flashing gold--the currency of you,
yes,
but also
something concrete
you left behind--

vanesa, i am filled
because you left me your worth.

dearest: nocturne

for e m

after many days adrift on the shifting ocean of my mind,
sun and moon beating careless down on my bare head,
i washed, salt-parched, to shore, and for a minute
gave over to thanks for that at least, before
opening lids on what i'd landed on:

a white beach in the shadow of a cliff
and v'd into its stone a grotto
where fresh water seemed to trickle
for there were green things all come up inside,
the ground green-packed, and lichenous walls
breathing sweet and wet.  stumbling i crossed
from white to green, finding the space
larger than what i'd thought--a small world
resting in the crook of the stone.
i went further in, treading softly on moss
spangled with tiny star-white flowers, ferns
brushing my upper thighs, vines my shoulderblades,
and saw a pool there, reflecting sky, at which i knelt
to taste.

it was fresh and clear, saltless, rock-sweet.
my thirst had been bitter--i felt
every cell expand, grow sleek with water--i drank
and drank, almost laughing, wet along
every line of parched gums, every crevice of teeth,
against tongue and within throat and all through me.

afterward, crouching back, i looked up
and found the goddess of the place:
a statue, made from white marble, yes, but streaked
every lovely color--gray and blue, and at its base
the gray-green barklike lichens bloomed.
its lines slender and pure, the figure of a woman.

i do not know how to give her thanks, so
for days i have been just staring at her, just being near.
but the stars at night are giant and clear, here;
wrapped in their shadows, with my back to the cliff,
and the echoing waves sounding far far away,
i am capable
of rest.

dearest

there is no such thing
as a beast with no burden.

this feeling that remains
like sand in the mouth of the oyster
of having cheated everything
to get near to you,
beloved, best-loved,
the one i loved,

defying everything
but words and actions--
with you in every way
but those of fact and fiction.

i dwelled within you secretly
and only because you had
so much to give me,
beloved, best-loved,
the richness of your hair,
the smell of you, the heavy softness.

you were like a phoenix
bursting on the horizon
limitlessly far away
and yet i came close enough
to brush the skin of your hands
with my fingers and call it
an accident

and your ankles
the music you listened to
just scraps
the smell of the knowledge
of things that surrounded you

it was more
than wanting
beloved

i had
an oblique harvest
of you--a harvest
of the things near you

(gathered the dust
of your star

on hands and knees
gathering dust

you formed
inside me
a precious jewel)

i saw the blue of your veins
like rivers
i felt the skin of your voice
on the air.

dearest

light of love
lingering, glancing like sun off the water
scatter of luminescence
the palm of the hand
hitting the water

the water is permeable
wide with toothless mouths
a thousand floating wrists
a thousand limp hands

i will factor this in, dearest, in gratitude.
you put the light in my hands and
when i smack the water it's for you

for you my love loved one with
eyes like sunfire

for you my loved one for the one i love