for the river is not cold to the quite

when i have been stalled in the night by stars
as the exterior portion
of my lungs has become winter, i breathe with my heart

held to the lower back of the sky, now laden
with small curtains of fragrances: pinyon pine, frozen thistle, juniper, honey mesquite, and the morning that is learning its night for now,
and now i am walking
inside to wash my face before bed.

when will the river meet me in my dreams, wash me, wear me, teach me what a smooth thing is. and when will the chorus
of a supernova burst fall
just the right gentle
on my ears. when will my feet be warm enough to fall
asleep. i am more

than the sleep walking mute, fluteless, breathless, lost. i am the gravity of love spun
out of control
now a man
asleep again. 

 

 

*(written for stuart wheeler on his birthday)