the sharp hindrance of forgetting

I saw grass as brother
it threw the husk
      of dawn & the riddle – I began to speak in broken
      syllable & the river blinked –

the boundaries of the sun have
begun its descent
      slow, feral, full of the red that brought peace to ague &
      power to eye, to limb –

there is a theory of open space
where clouds meet
      kite & how meets the wailing why of happening –
      no sun is closer to my face

than this sun – no buzz of an afterlife
is redeemed by sip of water
      no dream is begun in memory
      the sharp hindrance of forgetting –

the salt and the spear

The salt and the spear
    to wonder
    to woo to

walk – unshaken the spilt
    wonders too
    who to

call wind as the spear
    wonder, knits
    wood into


Large is the willow’s red – it is sound it is near – how near? as
your reach is bound to wrist to hip, that near – small is the
swollen sea – how small? as your paw is yearn is seen, that small –

ii asks

As I sleep away my mourning, grass walks, asks, “what
is it that the children of rain remember most?” The story
answers, waters the plaint – As I seep away my morning,
grass is worm is root as this poem is awake with heal-

“How does the strange earth bear fruit, does it know
which road shall converge into dark & which one shall
be the rabbit?” I stand as it all begins to flower & then
smoke – the fruit bearing earth now rustles its feathers-

Open water

do we in our moving
move toward life or death

do we in turn sell, burn & prosper   do we raze our haven   as death?

Stroke by stroke drawing us
Out there?   Father of rhythms,
deep wave, mother,
There is no out there.
All is open.
Open Water.   Open I.

Open hearth   Open stone       crucible of love     crux of I

Women, ships, lost voices.
Whatever has dissolved into our waves.
I a lost voice
moving, calling you
on the edge of the moment that is now the center.
From the open sea.

Whatever has dissolved in our bones
as rust
recalls –
we recall the tender
the edges recall, the stone, the work of the sea as the breaking out of open water.

Lines in bold are from Muriel Rukeyser’s “The Outer Banks”