poetry (or is it love?) is a means of transportation--
it begins in the middle and ends in the middle because
it's all about the ride, (unlike a racer
who wants to win at any cost)

what's left is a track that fables
are written on, (also known as memories)
half moonlight, half black ink, half wishful thinking.
(chinese mathematics)

love doesn't even have a road
to collect the snow--and it's that cosmic cold
that holds a galaxy in,
weightless, huddled in the window,
then wandering off into a darkness

flooding with gold. what sounds like gunfire
is just more love tossing up its light
or a racer crossing the finish line.
it's all one long (or short) path,
depending on your point of view.

the gods are seated in the stands, amazed.
sometimes they rise up cheering.
it's how they come to know themselves--nitro,
thrust, speed, words, heart, hands;
star-tracks and love
that races across our hearts

without a sound

you are not here to read
this chronicle of my nights. daytime hides
the stars, even the ones that took
forever to arrive. between dreams
and the unknown, i live my life
and that's where i love you.

tonight i will be separating insomnia
from sleep.. sleepless because your departures
are always too abrupt, no matter how long
they take. (but real sight, they say, begins
in the dark and yesterday has already
gone ahead to meet you because
time is relative
to arrival and departure.)

do you love me a little? you ask.
and if i were a poet i would answer:
come away from the window and lie down
in my arms.  there's no darkness
that is not already in you.  one day, you
will lie down and all your guard
will be surrendered
to my heart's lamp on a page pressed
by winter's hand in the shadow
of an attainable heaven