Winter map

2.24.13

Winter.  A long stretch
awake
or sleepless.
Long flight through time
and dark without heaven
or stars.

Mid-air.
Strung out above
a deep pit from which
no one wants to be rescued.
Sometimes I see my sister
wave up at me.

Maybe a tunnel, a cave.
Curled under silt.
A map to the end of it.
The light at the end of it,
or a more transparent dark.

A map, yes;
I need one of those.

Jungle instinct

2.7.13

I walk north on the main road
For miles until I am found,
Brought home.
It rains suddenly, loud minutes
Of rain in the dark on the clear roof.
In the silence after, geckos
Chirp and knock.
I open what I can. Not much.

The air is wet vanilla vines,
Red banana tails.
(Who is writing this?)

I am a bird with wings like bamboo scoops.
Bigger than you expect.
Perhaps you feel my shadow
When I pass over.

Persistently, I am a rainbow waiting to be noticed.
I am after the storm, and the sky is full
Of rainbows from which you can't close your eyes and hide.
Feel? the shadow?

In books I have read about reality;
Sometimes a flat or empty place,
Sometimes already spilled and
Spilling, but
Always a flow you can't close your eyes and stem

Asleep on the sand, in the road, under the roof, against the dead reef,
gecko in the night-
I carve in myself an instinct.
Chirp, knock.
When a shadow passes,
My head turns to look.