there are dreams that tremble
in the deserted corners
of my smile,
locked and sealed away
(i cover them)
cobwebs and dust and memory
each a past life never touched
of a wild and beautiful life—
and i wait
to weave a way
back onto the surface
of my mouth and then
so that i can remember the feeling
of the moon again
and the stars
what it means to be
what it means to breathe.
words by the dust dances too
they say that at some point in time
every star in the universe will die,
what will there be then?
i remember the night
the power went out, and the storms
we had beating in our chests
and bones were
so close i could hear the hollows of you
so close i could feel your color.
and if the world does end in darkness
i know now that we will be ok,
we are not empty inside,
there is a light bound there
that is something eternal.
(this is a place i belong, and know)
every river has its own courage,
returning again to its birth.
things die and are born
even the earth, it hides
its emotions beneath the mountains,
inside oceans and flowers and trees—
secret, but still alive
the earth loves, like every living thing,
even the forgotten
veins, exposed and gasping
in the dust
we have this notion that we rule,
like gods, that we fill space
and air and land
but we cant comprehend our place
except from the sky, looking down
or looking up into the night; there
we find what it means to be small and
moving back into dying light,
time i will never experience
but what i had was beautiful,
and that is enough.
- the dust dances too
wonder is folded into everything.
before, and after
the air and lightning (where words travel)
the grass and ocean puddles
—drops of rain
in the creases of our palms
the simple way
our hearts know the rhythm of each other.
there are things only the pines know:
secrets and dreams
ripe and sweet scented—
i remember once, the way it felt getting lost
and the way the air curled itself against us,
the taste of it on our tongues
when we howled at the moon,
there was no world
except this one, this world we created
lost beneath the branches.
and i knew that even if we,
like wolves, were to devour that love,
it would still exist somewhere in our blood steam.