July 4, 2012

poem 214 of a poem a day for 2012

Don’t be greedy, when you step into a scent portal

the womb
the wand
the blade
the steal
of skin
the supposed
thin part of stars
that is the slow fire
a soul rusts with
thirsting for salt

carving time
inside a fantasy
of player-pianos
our wills are
writing symphonies
in sea caves
each one is 
our breathable memories
our high licks
and low kicks
our mortality’s membrane
letting in the rain
just a little bit

I call out for water
to ballast the wind
and remember
why I drew down the Moon
setting wooden spoons
on fire to honor
the Goldilocks burn
of the Sun
and the lost shadow magic
I bathe my remaining wild in

the thickening quickness
of my fertile release
is a clawed muffle
of screaming
it is the poetry
of my hunger
when Summer is ready
as She is 
on these days

as She is
always ripe
always willing
always wanting
trimmed vines
mined tides
fast hands
and eyes
that unfurl
the trembled directions
of our bare throats

She is blooming exhales
scribbling the mathematics
in the queen anne’s lace
chalk boarding something
for me to remember
along each turn
of the road

savor this
myself into
the side windows
spearing the West
with a squint
and a smile
that lingers
where She might be
between a cup
and the cut of a blade
between a rupture
and a rapture
that behaves
outside the light
that libraries give