forty days and nights and on

forty days and nights and on

three times in this afternoon
the sky grumbled  complaining
  of  sunlight
brow thunderhead furrowed
pearlescent gray  thoughts
collecting in high rise billows
 determined to fall

and it does
it always   falls

I know the feeling of falling:
 gravity’s insistent wish
to bring me down
when flighty  I stubborn dream
   of flying

I outsmart   this declination
 enter into the castings of the wormword
 in tunnel  with as much pleasure
 as in flight
the earth   soil mud and stone
the naked bone of love
nerves fretted into a tangled web
 of root and rhizomes
leaves me speaking in water and earth
muddied now from forty days and
   nights of   rain
and still it falls
and even here I continue
    falling 
towrad the center
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two poets two

two poets two
      ~~~for Stephen

the downstairs poet writes
  ‘sploring  poring over   then pouring out
to the mantra of rain   leaf steady tempo’d
sorting through the con  
  fusions  of too much and too little
picking up and out  stitches  
 needled in  clumsy  
re-stitching life with grace

the upstairs poet  her spinnerets having fiddled
 pupates in her silken rapt chrysalis
  and her threads when she breaks forth
 will connect  part to part
mentation and imagination plied 
 into yarns to be woven in with
 the skein of her skin wrapped spirit

word  as seducer   seduced
 into bearing young
line by line  in suggestive dress
reaching across  empty space
filling it with audibles
song and dance  flung in the face of death
 into the breach  where  the self   whole
 is  questionable  and any Other   veiled
  or  dim in the flaking mirror
 the messenger no longer quicksilver
though s/he speeds in arcs 
across the zodiac
delivery promised  
from what delivered  we are not
privy   this one sentence
 written at large:
you cannot score a perfect
mererly a passing mark
mistakes   of knowing only a piece
x’d in the margins   
no rehearsal  
from what is pieced
a show of only one 
improvised performance
that one though  wondrous
enough

the alchemist’s workshop

the alchemist’s workshop

picture me   palms pressed
       against the alembic’s glass walls
vexed in my concave enclosure
 perplexed by the reflected stretch
  of my features   
process   transformed 
 the refinement   never 
what was expected 
 
absorbing  heat  and view
meowling my change state
  in leery vocables
this register  unscaled by the voice
  before  this one

memories of what I was   bleach
        in the presence of  what pours in
  from outside this transparency
fading   fading   in the presence 
of the messenger
 mercurial and   ever-present
within the confines of this muthering pot

lazy mind pushed into action
 compressed and spun out
into the mind thread

I speak the “I”
because I cannot speak  otherwise
I is the only One  resident
in this transforming alembic
forgoing instruction
and testaments of You/They/We
one alone  and yet
attachments are woven
on the looms of emotion

this tapestry I weave
is warped on Love
and my shuttle flies
over and under depicting 
the We of outside in