*
With the bedrock it needs
though this city was built
on rainwater :shards
pieced together the way pots
imbedded in ancient dirt
let these dead drink by steps
from stone scented with curtains
still damp except for evenings
lowered by hand into the last drop
and foothold –pole to pole
is what the graves remember
as bone, take hold till your arms
fill with towers looming past
and under the marble cliffs
the finishing stroke.
*
Even before you touch
it has lift, rushes more air
over one hand and not the other
though once at the controls
spin is what you cling to
letting the knob drag the door
the way moonlight never leaves
has nothing to do with skies
closing in on each other
half rivers, half mountainsides, half
whatever you hold in your arms
is stone, counts the turns and when.
*
A jacket could trick my arms
help me forget once they leave
though what I become
has lips and around each shoulder
both sleeves fit the way skies
still overflow, break free
settle down, neatened
as if this mirror was still looking
could hear, I don’t see you, louder.
*
You hover the way each memory
stands by –the faintest scent
breathes down your brain
till its dust reeks from moonlight
and you cover your arms with air
holding them down, drag this table
more than enough for clouds
and though nothing falls
you’re sure it’s safe to exhale
making room in your heart
for the smell from skies
and what they too wanted back.
*
Heated by sand each word
gathers up another
one teaspoon at a time
–your fever can’t be found
though the address was written
from salt and glass –you don’t see
the envelope :the bottle
crowding you from inside
has to be taken by mouth
as if a lull made any difference
without the pieces to settle down
and already your throat tastes bitter.
