buried in the calendar

For me alone
God tugged a dark text
from the lemon light page sour with
morning sun, a ghost called to
dance in the melody of memory,
copper flavored as a mollusk, and
grown even, heavily biologic with
rage to haunt the steal
blade ego me, sideways through the
blank street of my marigold and mercury
sunrise machine,
Riding the clocks fastest hand
gravity’s thought astounds as
suddenly as a goldfish, curling faith
to cream, and weaving in the
willow trees that limn each
separate memory, in blue & pebble gray
along each orange scale burns the
difference, pronounced as night &
day
a wobble of axis, the word made into
rock, clay, dust and abandoned where
the glued stones shine by the
slices of light that accumulate into
a life long railroad, traveling east-west
a fixture of spirit, silver as a
gun delivers to me daily
new lead, dull madness inscribed
in my mind
forever two lines, running alone
together, a darkness of wood and stone
between us too, a million rails burning
sun untouched for a life, but for
the antler of shade where deer
crisp through September apples
I ache at all this gleaming gold
pressed up against a window pane
my mind winding
hair into sweaters and scraps of sweaters
into quilts, a feminine finger points
me north, a signal of that cold
freedom, courting the moon in winter
night, snow & space colliding in my eyes
a colorless world, metal lie
and before me now grows hands of
blue sky after its slumber, drunk and abandoned
love keeps me quarreling, pull at the wheel of
life, pouring out glass after glass, of this
electric thing, from some thing that seems
to be a great decanter of late December.