runner – carpet – underfoot

from where i stand        it’s all right here

all i have to do is pull some

threads – together – for the sun

to glint     rotaries      and whistles

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i took the bee

from the window pane

removed it – let it

loose – from the top

of the top step

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the spinning wheel was a gift from her mother –

old – 18c – found – missing only one small part –

an opening so narrow – for thread –

of specific fiber – flax.  The part has been repaired.

The repairer recommending – mechanism be

set in place

as furniture

so much labor

for so little thread.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

for taije

 

the canticchiò is in the kitchen

gurgles, fish; Mountain always

journey; mother’s knees an instant,

brush, gaze beyond; within these walls

no sound; sound.  Cry.  Birdsong now.

Hammering.  Car.  Hum.  That house is

no more.  That other house is Still.

O poet.  That was BlaspheMe.

listen

Sentami

i go every day to that small

room – waiting – wait – listen

to see what form sound will take

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

her two feet felt

beneath them sand

sea the first time

after one hundred

years

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the pathways segments

revealed, the gray

matter — redbird perched

on a branch – left temple

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

for Taije

 

i woke up holding half a sphere

suspended around my neck

the other hand was open above my head –

the same hemisphere i had taken off

it weighed me down

and put back on

in the nick of time

my world

 .

i woke up holding half a globe

suspended around my neck — close close to my temple

purchased when the world was imagined

whole-er – a distant house on a cliff above the seacoast,

a mother there with a mother (and configurations

and re-configurations past & future imagined whole)

.

salt

salt-on-chips

and rented folding chairs

seaside chairs in such a strange, amusing, confining,

uniform configuration

and where a stranger pulled the child from the surf

when he had walked off too far from us.

.

i woke up this morning holding half a sphere in my palm

(flattened back, not carnelian,

perhaps polished volcanic stone)

the other hand was open

the coffee-maker said – tic –

 

 

 

 

 

 

the aquarium said – it gurgled – hum

 

 

 

the hum echoing

from the back of the throat

was low moan — more like whale sound

of mother —

or child —

that back strong fin

above surface — with so much more work

yet

to do

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

that heel is against you? ear gossip about?

that you shall not stand again?

do not fret

trellis is —

that disk is before you

yellow, golden,  butterscotch

countenence

ing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in the darkest part of Night

i woke and checked the time

at intervals and was struck —

as if forehead on door frame in

darkened hallway without the light

on, or reaching for one, Brain —

darkness, that mother and second home

have the same address.