what is known
is naught but tracer, sparked through ocean
dark and vast primordial
clamping like skin to bone, the unknown
to imagination
which plops meagre stone across inland sea
into a semblance of knowing
barely coalescing before it crumbles behind
as we dreamwalk this plank

to the dancing-tune of Caesar's pirates
who hold truth hostage
and treasure even the innocent lies
for their value in spanning the mighty gulf
between pale descriptors, bound by words
whose virtue is only in forestalling
the endless silence
and just homage to the fullness of things....

did you leave me a message, calling me sistah,
and letting me hear the ocean?
or was that a dream?
and now, i feel you, receding? falling?
as the tide, or from the cliff,
from where the ocean roared
all the way to here?

i want so much to touch you there, in those tangled middles
i know i can soothe you, ease the snarls
just by thinking them calm, barely a whisper passing between
and given time, could turn your eyes to Love
not love of this form, this wrinkly mess
nor love of any form!
but love of all form - as perfect expression of the divine
who ever pours for you

but to a heart cleaved, these words may ring empty
as the hollow-belly ever grumbles for substance
the warmth and beat beat beat of another breathing soul
cupped in a gentle eternity
filling the deeps and shallows with sweet sweet succor
as the night draws long, and sheets settle, so smooth
upon the hills and valleys of us

you toy with my hair, thinking i sleep
and i try not to smile
i know you are dreaming me
feasting upon the shadows of moonlight
obscuring the crows-feet and worry-lines
gravity has pulled kindly toward the pillow
with its pale satin sheen, and shadow-dance of
sheer curtains, languid on moonbeams
which fortune smiles to frame this midnight moment
in your heart
as it breaks, and pours its lament
silently, so as not to stir
this waking dream….