the scent
of a macrocarpa
and innocence
is it to see
the moon behind the cloud
the deathmask eyes?
such wonder too
breaks down into silence
trickling stream
this deep
into the interior
where the spring?
as dusk
bruises the lake
visions rise
the darkness
circling Makara
in the gull's cry
muddy pond—
a frog dives into
entering deeper
the mind's underbelly
of curdled clouds
to the stars
a candle waxes
my invisible history
of being

love making one shadow

take this cup
it is made empty
for you
spring rain
baptismal calligraphy
in the font
crescent moon
head over heels
in darkness
fresh green leaf
her sleeping-down head
a-lay on me
the sea also
longing longing longing
to break ashore
some words
lying just so—
blossom fall
after-dream . . .
my empty pages
on tenterhooks
autumn dusk . . .
the sound of daydreams
entering water
day after day
the deepening terror
of a still pond
mirror lake—
one stillness expecting
sounding out 
the efficacy 
of silence

wormturn intowards itself

river fog
dreams rise around me
painting light
the absence
darkness suffocates
on itself
in dark wings
breath before
there is light
rite of passage
town after town blooming
golden arches
prayer fall
until breath gives up
even meaning
joyful mystery . . .
a heartbeat quickens
from the dungeon
words not quite 
fitting the isness
of all this