The Slow Heart Pacing


it’s not so much the double push

one then again straight away

and noticing how it flips and floes

when i feel i am made of nothing

but blood reminds its home is here


up and back around renewed

so many tunnels to travel

so much dark time

and noticing you are not me and

i am not more of nothing


there is a way a hand or voice can change

that squeeze of sinew filling veins

of time with blood and you

the pacing heart moving across that space

on the way to slow forgetting


how to move that red that is not red in the dark interior

its not so much you as the second beat

the heap and heap of you

that presses my whole still life and moves it


sinew flicking through time

up and back, renewed.

245 days


The air is tangled

all around her

filaments in and out

of these breaths I count

the snug of her

against my side

warm that’s mine

but now her’s.

How can I know her

and not – ?

those days she spent

gathering herself from me

in and out with the


up and down of the two hearts

rubbing rubbing

chaffing life up.

As if this face has always

been with me

and is more my own

than the mirror or window’s

bright fleck of person.

But only this short time

the sleep of her

so enormous.




As the sky leaks

so will you

a minute apocalypse

of fluid

once seemed to be yours then falls

and you find yourself outside yourself

exacting callous flow

from time to time.

He cannot change this

small wonder

that leached your bones’ own filaments

the fine lines of marrow


from the sun or some explosion

in the sky

where all this seems to start

and end.

You see yourself

as structured from surroundings

like birds

who weather

wear the sky from claw to beak

themselves a drop of yolk

sunset pinched to yellow

the salt blue of that fellow

how the clotted bloodstream

twisted up with iron and elements

whose very names – nitrogen oxygen hydrogen –

are foreign outsiders marching

on time’s own order

not soldiers of the self

that pulled me from you and then on again

file after file

in a library of clouds.

Some days you are the sky’s

immense sadness

that speaks up and is surrendered to

blood cord taught

that ends all ends

and will conclude…



It leaps and barks

so remember, when you feel that

hot sparkle of fear

press your curled hands to your chin and stay completely still.

Close your arm pits,

jam your knees together

lock your toes into position.


From all these loves

anguish rises up like

tides that grow and overflow themselves

as love does

so does fear.


Press down on the smell of it.

Keep it in the hollow of your body

the runnels of it

oozing out

a tide of your body’s making.

A body that you love too much

to have it punctured by toothy

possibility.  To have other tides

leeching from you

wounds and other injuries

that don’t bleed outwards.


The spark is not just fear.

It is the the tinkle of

the knowledge

that this is your own silken life

running liquid time surfing.

Tide breathing.

Creeping up and receding.

Shadow dog receding.

Fuller then gone.

The rosary of bedtime



You take off your shoes
Your watch
The way you look sidelong
Put down the map of yourself
You always have to carry
To find your way back here
And sigh

All the day’s return
Is stretched in the arc of your neck
The crack of tendon joint and bone
Set down the muscle that holds out your hands
Props up your voice
The song you will sing tomorrow

Roll up your eyes
Brush your hair away from your forehead
Savor the quiet
Taste the sleep hovering through the air ready to swallow you whole