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Index of poems:
Ancient as Sleep mouth cupping air body riding the wetness she passes over hidden springs of silence arms reaching beyond themselves thrust, contain, recover thrust, contain, recover her body, a wet suit filled with flesh and longings rises wingless to the surface in sunlit strokes over pond's veined landscape in a damp continuity water enters her entering the water sight blurs making everything clear backward stroke reveals wrinkled maps of hands where they've been, where they're going reshaping surfaces changing rhythm and direction rescuing stillness from its own weight and then becoming stillness again as she floats embraced by waves in intoxications of calm ancient as sleep
Let there be cool linen and lovers resting between sheets humming a small heaven between them
Let there be a settlement of snow
Let there be moon-plucked waves
Let the pulse beat within us
Let us steep tansy, coriander
Let us bring the knower to the known
Light cartwheels into morning returning to the same spot as if it knew the way, sheets sticky with summer, the scald of August.
Air glows, sweat jewels his chest
Here, I am no one's child
After hours of talk and touch,
I lie in the smooth mouth of sleep
In the measuring of breath,
Out of sun and fog, we have come this far.
I want Promethean heat of summers and the future stretching like a field with no fences. I want dreams leaking into real time turning darkness into a treasury of light.
I want to shut out the yammer and slam around us:
I want to shape a space for calm
I want to step out of windows
I want the feeling
She dreads the thought of going back empty handed, with memory shredded into alphabets of silence.
Through the long night of the body,
of her entrance into the world, poised
of branching roads beneath her
through rock and earth and clay,
In a hush of color, she returns
Last night we slept between two winds under a ripe moon on the other side of nowhere until
thin skeins of dawn reveal
Outside the morning window,
In the scald of afternoon, we learn
of autumn is the smell of cut wood
musk, silk, wordless smiles.
old and the weather vane grinds
feet and there's only
we still mourns Pavlova,
Her death so light,
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