There was a rustling chaos
                         gone loose in the dead grass

                                               on the day I was born

                                 a mild blueness
                       a little impersonal smoke in the lungs

         the shadowed lip of a tapestry

                            an old tune
                         in the weave of her strumming hand

                                        hair in curlers
                                        in a house in Phoenix

                               light cutting the spine of a room 
                      all the sharp notes  

                 spilt coffee on the Honda’s brown upholstery

               —how could I take on those dusted colors
      dyes, disagreements with life

               my love was on the outside
                      windborne, dry
                     bright as a rural stone
                             earthbound, pointing heavenward

                   while she dropped costume jewelry down the mine shaft
        waiting for love to call back

           her hands, sharp as corners
           held a mirror between worlds

 and when the glass rained down it shimmered

                                 slit me open, pushed
                            toward the riotous edge of a sea
                where the strength was out
            in the open shoreline smells

                                                              a dead leopard shark on the riprap
                                          and I didn’t want her

                                                   what could I do but run
               at the opening of your death                                          

        ::

                                               At the opening of your death
                                                       set chaos aside

                 I tried

                                                                  can’t you see I’m beyond the gate
                                      in these old rock clefts, ancient sea-beds

                    your face stops moving
                            your hand begins to slide

                      lord help me
                           wrap her in optimistic silks
                        lay her body down in the tall grass
                    keep the weather from her wind-touched hand

                                                     —all this time you could’ve been
                                                             laughing into the shoulder of a friend’s coat
                                                       your tender ear on an arm

                but even that plain rub of belief dissolved
                  what her last sound was like

                     what secret knowledge could I gain
                                 pulling a ring from her sleeping knuckle

                        it was a lonely world
                 when I took poetry for a mother
                      shimmering light fell on the tines of a spork

                                                                     a thorn worked its way into the hem

        ::

                                   Off looking for a pine or two   
                              blades of marsh grass to rub together  

                                                                      maybe some other body could teach me how to touch
                                         without the furious twitching I was born to  

                                      frond, a needle, singleleaf  
                                 gingerly padding in the duff
               or nervous flits                     the continuity of the underbrush

                                                  I trust like the tide
                 trash bags and toy guns carried out to sea

                               that’s why my nose was in the estuary scum (my own true home)

                                                      when I heard your scream
                                     cut fingernails and wildfire over the lip of the mountain

                                                              calling me back to
                           a sliver of dirt

                                            why I turned my back to the sea’s edge
                    I’ll never tell
                                                         a windblown letter
                        troubles the marsh water

              no scream in your sealess complaint

                                                                                 I know that voice

        ::

                                                 A braided, umbilical twist forms a mosaic on a wall
              the many things which we can observe but which it is not given us to know

                             the soft, ennobling mezzanine of your death

                cracked in the tide of your tumbling breath
                                  broken as sea rock in an ancient desert
                                              an entrance, it could be lovely, you could be happy

                                          your hands changed color
                                                    the air left your body

                      Momma, mend the hole in my coat
               take my guitar down from the wall