Tents upon tired
frozen dirt,
wind that stops
at doorsteps
and says hello,
lovers that do not
stop for the wind,
and others who simply
do not stop.

Revelation and secrecy,
untamed terrible,
frozen dirt
melting campfires,
breaking fountain pens
and ruffling feathers
that can’t stand still,
time is sacred
of all things.

Into the soup caldron
that is bubbling hot
and boiling over,
dissolved in tea
that is whistling,
words that are spoken
in other rooms,
televisions turn off
and refrigerators
close their doors,
I stay awake
until the campfire
salutes the dirt
that is frozen,
confronting the wind.

Flashlighted men
wander among tents
while heartbeats
tapdance, whispers
of what does not exist,
that do not exist. Nothing
goes to a grey
garden and eats
unpeeled carrots.

Fish fall
and curtains close,
people go
home
and sleep it off,
with charms and silver
tongues that don’t sleep,
jewelry of what is not,
no expression.

The jumping off point,
the board, the platform,
the stage, the curtain,
the window, the parade
of people in the street
with nothing old and
nothing new,
no plan from before.
No door.

Doubts about ending
darkness, sand upon
sidewalks and
conga drums,
salient springs
of beautiful
purposeful poisons.

Fire hydrants
stand quiet
and explode.
I have tried this many times
and cannot explain it.
I don’t try.

Colors begin to fall
upon fingers
in waves,
invisible
to what is,
one
with what is not,
do not stop.xxxdo not stop.

xxxxdo not stop.

(3.23.09)