(Untitled)

back, now: 

where wind is Creation singing praise

where His name is trapdoor

out of dreams with teeth 

and i calendar an anniversary 

of the night a rabbit died

and there are little flowers on an umbrella

that are so wonderfully alive

and where i taste, and see

that there's a stickiness about it all

some warm syrupy thing: some golden charm 

some flushed freckled cheek of some man's mother, 

who holds me from some other somewhere  

where morning is revolution,

and mourning is reverence.

the sun again drips in ringlets

and lives a force strong enough

to make me write of rainbows

where i may speak aloud

because i am free to do so,

and not because if i do not, i will drown. 

restlessness is hummingbird, not hunger,

and claim is not collar.

i am the edges of the sky that knows

it cannot rush Him, or her, or myself,

and curls in honey-slow spirals of grey

to coax catharsis.

we are the rain: not the wrongs,

not the threads, worried and frayed

— just home.