Sunday, September 29, 2013

Meanwhile, the tower is famous because it leans,

deer bound in and out-- tails
flick ing white
in the-furthest-from-surrender kind of way.
Deer medicine surrounds : muggy :
quick in/quick out, daily
leaves crystalize. Some fall.
All summer the summer
was soaked, wore its hair plastered to its face--
so soaked roses, cukes drunk
on all the water, yellowed and endless
the months

the deer are still

in and out,
of corn
by ourselves.
We don't aim
to kill them,
but the

I watch the morning:
540 rise, stars lift,
sky—some beautiful
being, worth the linger
of our eyes.

The summer was soaked,
garden was soaked fruits,
which I ate, sometimes
on my knees, sometimes
cross-legg-ed, ankles
pressed in

to the earth.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Being buried to the chin in a pile of warm dryer clothes feels like:

the Earth is healed, the streets smell sparkly
and lack cement. She is able to be in her body--
each muscle, unlocked is weeping into
the finish line. The finish line is a light
beam. The quiet

is safety roaring's arms in which
she is.
Her muscles no longer
weep. They wept until 
they dropped

She is all that is left. 
She can look at any color and be okay. 
The stuttering stops-- that word 
in her mouth lets go of her tongue and as it

is spoken, it floats away.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

I want to free all the candles

A sparrow with a broke wing
outside the door versus walking beneath a
row of trees filled with flittering sparrows.

Both were part of that day the hay stacks
were draped in blue blankets in the fields,
they asked can the cows keep up, can we
milk them smarter, turn their shit
into electricity if the milk doesnt obey?

It was that day-- day I fed the dog
her vitamin, carried a full bucket
of yellow corn to the deer house, watched
for the wave
of its flicking, white tail.
It was the weekend I came
home with blisters
in my mouth, chigger bites
on my breasts, laid hawk feather
on the dash of my car. I found
a rusted apple beneath the seat.

It was the week I pulled the nails out
of the blue carpet that you never said,
If you make it to the end with scars-- a toe
missing, you've lived well.
You said instead I'd need to replace
your mother's candle-- the one
that melted that summer
onto the table outside, the white
one youd kept on the mantle for looks.