My body’s geometry aches.
There are a hundred miles of captivity inside.
This junglized-desert is a rainstorm in reverse.
I’ll take the willow tree bowing; be it oasis or not.
I say to myself, “soft eyes.” I say it as soft as I can.
I crack open the bottle and drink the poetry.
I see in double helix. The Earth is breathing.
Treading lightly, I do not pretend to be drunker than I am.
These geese are graceful white wind chimes.
The swan is a singing corridor of cottonwood.
The hummingbird flies through a thousand falling knives.
There is a raven in my ribcage outsmarting me.
I out think myself Baba. That is my problem.
My arms brace the ledge like claws of a suspension bridge.
I think; I will be here for a while. I think about what forever will do to me.
I am so used to bracing us, that when I try to sit straight, I lean over.
I have faulty logic. And beautiful dimples.
How much love could a lover love
If a lover could love love?
I sing again,
How much love could a lover love
If a lover could love love?
There is a great yearning in me to speak to the water.
I crack open the poetry and smash the bottle.
There is beach glass in your garden.
Staggering home, I am so full of love that I can not walk straight.
Some weaver is moving me in and out of the tree line
Before I collapse for a moment I am a standing stone.
My braids are miles long; and if you unraveled them,
A country of unspoken truths would fall to the floor.
With my cheek to the ground and my eyes full of mud
I swear on the places you’ve prayed
I could hear the mountain talking in her sleep
And that my friend
Is one way
To fall inside
The mouth of a whale