In the Space Between the Snowflakes

The seeming loss of everything
still has me swaying as at sea

but the time when I was falling
into and out of myself
far too fast to focus
has receded,

and you know,

I heard somewhere that the Self might be God
of a warm and familiar planet
where we all are the savior of something.

The Flood was Never Coming

Bated by breath that bathes the Earth
I stand at attention
my senses poised to filter in
the bloom of morning.
And I swear beside these quiet stones
that my grief will be interred
before my flowers wither.
The fear that, could we backtrack
the landscape of our lives
we would not find a footprint,
is it you that binds our tongues and bodies?
I see some brothers and sisters moving mute,
ever scanning the horizon for higher ground.

Cafe in Mid-February

“To be surrounded by beautiful curious breathing laughing flesh is enough”

~Walt Whitman,
I Sing the Body Electric

There are other moments I encounter in this

one when everything moves slow

and I realize there is no difference

between drinks at the Groveland Tap and Guitar Hero
between God and drunken bike races in the snow

and I believe for half a breath

that if I bear myself in perfect honesty
if I tell my father and mother that I've done drugs and fucked
up my relationships with rash selfishness

then everything will be clear as the glass of iceless water

and maybe they won't turn in shame
maybe a hand would fall to my shoulder

and this weight of proof could be lifted
to fly from me like a flock of sparrows fleeing a bush
who just for a second
seem like they'll never stop

releasing something that continues
like the lines that are not segments
going on forever beyond where they end