Fine Sands

These things we thought were holding us together:

strong backs, bone and nerve, tendons and cartilage,

naked need, blood and vessel - they carry us only so far.

Two million beats, that's all we get.

It's a strange sympathy

broken down by weight and sun,

born into a new light

by eclipses and precious seconds of dark.

Run headlong and strong, my love!

Run into the waves on the edges of us

where we are battered into fine sands

and stripped down to nothing more than the bright,

burning essence of what we always were -

two million beats to start again.

Into the Folds of Me

This place
this place that burns me
with a name,
the quiet sigh of golden field
and pale lilac sunset clouds.

All these hills do
is climb gently into the folds of me,
ripples that span lifetimes
and bloom gently
when pressed by trodden foot
into crop circles
and tilled earth.

Stalks askew,
I leave paths for you to find.
Through time you must puzzle
us together again.

I do my part,
limited as this flesh has left me
in these burning hills,
to rip a veil from the space between us,
from this separation I have imagined.

How cruel,
in the face of this beauty,
that absence is what
our minds would birth.

Solar Flare

These things we push away from us
dirty, scarred, ripped and torn
are half shells of truth
stripped down to the bone,
their wings now debt.

These learned, sidestepped paths
that took me down to those hollow veins
and shone in a grimy light
the ways in which I was
Not.

Not this.
Not this.
Or that or this,
knocking every one down with splintered bats
from sidewinder curves
and misses
and outs.

These will not be soul-breaking labors.

The births that mark time on this strange tree
have no power to make me less,
only more true
more true
and more true.

Every revelation
a solar flare of deeper law
that brings me home.