I rise to fall upon the summit height
to sue for grace or settle for release,
the wind wrapped round my skin is rarefied
and in its bleak embrace I find no peace.

I sought to hold you fast within my heart,
to pin you like a dying butterfly –
the simplest sin is sacrifice for art
when jewelled colours melt to dust and die.

One cannot bottle hope or lust or dreams
nor claim the same ascension every time,
like silkworms singing sweetly through their grief
we weave this way then leave it far behind.

And all the while I weep for thee, my friend:
there is no loss if love be at the end.

Am I bound by these chains
or do I cling to them as I span the abyss?
For myself, I cry:
I would rather release my hold, perchance to fly,
than grasp fear by the hand as an ally against the fall.

embroidered tapestries of tales
hung in museums of memory,
this dark creation of unbounded myth
glorifying what was meant to be myself.

This is the least of it,
this small attempt at god
and I might have made it fly
if not for saving feathers for a lark.

Rushing when I might have stopped
pausing to delay a season
childish, I was nowhere taught
to eat the flame and love in spite of reason.

Still: I look within
I see some shining thing
I kiss this fear that has this face
in the glass of the mirror in the last place on earth.

The long completion sought too late
was in good time though hard and lacking grace.
Of all we grew in that simplistic place these three remain:

Your antique words.
Your plastic soul.
The impious stars.

No blame.

Take my hand and lead me down
I know there’s ground where we both stand
and tip to toe we two can show
we see the same in symbols old and turning in.

For all the sidewalk carpet time
you’ve spent in learning
what you’ve always known to be
and all the smoke and stacks
and hearts that pound
in dusty velvet boxes seldom opened gone
and here we lie in endless night
nothing in sight but fire and lost illusion.

Life’s a bird and broken thing
unless released to take to wing
to soar above the smoky dawn and call
the song of kindling to fire the soul to shine
and though you’re mine as much as this
we cannot try to miser it in boxes, bowls and books
for just a look from time to time and time again.

There is a certain pleasure then
in knowing now and not the when
to say the words that show you know
that chains are useless, jail’s a crime,
and love’s the space between the lines
of bars that cage us in.

breath makes fog in air
the electric blanket bakes
my hot bed sauna
sardines in a can
they are put there by a man
in a factory.