Once there was a memory, sitting. Mist, clearing, in a dark room of points. There was a harboring of safetys that buoyed in the sea-chant and then, I too, was rattling in the green. My feet were nested in salt and sand. My hands, adrift in lace.
Look at me, you said.
I found a way in, I answered. Come, share my habits and my sea-turns.
Forget it, I’m not a good sharer. Let’s go leave that memory.
Once there was a middle that could’ve been rain.
Once, there was a Sunday morning and I said, I wonder if we have to go that way.
Once, I felt I was a slice of heart.
Once, there was the falling of night and I was alone with its steepness, and said, stirring because I felt I was a pooling of light; a door-sliver and a golden beam.
Once, there was a request to be imaginary.
Once, the story was a brief gust; a whirl of some dance “and then life became music.”
all my days at the open dark
stand in an always
so often as I am, as I be, as I will
above the grit of good and arriving,
dark has no face and dark runs from the moon
but wolves in the teeth of night,
& the clank and gong.
hover utter still
a sourcing a re-affirming a waited rush of the found
a vein, like a star’s blue,
or navied in vain.