tissue of thread of rootbeer candy

I am in someone else in their grandfather's garage, a curl of ancient grease,

fingers my nose, pulling me out to plowed earth, mosquitoes

fresh grass grown to long, strong enough for rope, I hang these memories there,

a school of dead fish, swims in the oily air, and deer from

every season, and off season in lean years- click hooves on the last

remaining concrete not cracked to dust

this smell is my legacy, the farm sold to cover medical costs,

keeping an angry life alive one-more-year (that year) invisible

tears hardened in to gold, and burned a blessing in to my

skin, or the skin that used to be ME- it all separated in a panic

every street became a sea, and to cross them was death defying.

Still there was comfort there, eventually, a bargain can be made for

peace- hell can be parceled out, slowly through a life time, Thank God

and so I joined the family in ways I didn't even recognize, bring my

hand to my face, 100 times daily, a liquid rosary where my

hand and heart mumbled love and disappeared in to that word

if brown paint spilled blue and red purple there- God

I am back from traveled sadness to

sidewalk sadness,

a quelling storm rises (already disappearing)

in the morning, there- a

birth of dieing,

a hand tightening around air

the fingers dragged through smoke

to at last see that nothing it touches

life a whiff of its heavy gray Saturday stroll,

through the Midnight Supermarket,

remember who we were, who I was in that

destroyed landscape, ready to explode

and gaining ghosts by the basket all day long

haunted- so many bones plow the ground

behind me, cutting crude syllables in to clay

as something like

steady rain washes it all away.

this stone qurrels with the bones of Robert Frost

13 minutes from sunrise,
i have carved out time in to
the shape of a bird, and no it is at

market, instead of drifting down

the
upper Niagara, this is not the

sweep of the second hand here,

it is not
a small sun rising stationary in the

east marking me greedy for life
it is more abstract than that it is

blood dipped on paper and

burned, it is my sacrifice to the
only divinity I have known, it is my

heart
at the heart of property and to

cut it out would stop the sun from

rising, and push me from the

coast of my being in to what...

eternity?

Clay Mortar between the Stone.

I have learned the art of
return, beer bottles to faith, and
back to 15 desperate hotel rooms,
finalized by sandy haired maids
all yelling, all willing to take a stray in,
all love is declarative of something:
that it is monastic, and it works
the heart in its brothel, no better line
of work for something so abused, I
knew before knowing that you were the one,
I would trade in dreams for, for a good
stone walk and a garden by the fish pool,
where faith is orange and gold, and a
vine choked nasturtium, waits patiently
on a botanist, needing only a few knowing
fingers to unfurl the bindweed from its
throat, fingers with strength enough to pull
the killing thing out all the way
down to the root.