Avarice

It gets so terribly loud,
The chattering of glass at night
In the deep dark of winter.
I feel anything but free,
Seeing the wind blow down the road,
Just a wind in the mouths of the residents
Of this quiet neighborhood.

But in this neighborhood,
What you find is grabbing and smiling
And taking hold of the beautiful things, surely,
As the wind blows towards more open fields,
Where the nighttime decides to abandon the darkness.
It opens into dawn and the greedy wind
Moves swiftly and sweetly onward.

And as I run through the field,
Dead and white as it is,
I hear the greedy wind chasing too.
Chasing after the sunrise,
After the bight of solar rays,
Gnawing on hills of snow that have drifted there,
Where the morning brings warmth

On most of these days.
And it feels good,
Even if it's only from the outside inward,
Because it doesn't quite feel safe,
Even if it is a comfort in truth.
So as the wind reaches a bony hand towards the sun,
I stop running and consider the race I've won.

Passion and Wanton

Loosed, kicked, into the dream of spinning
it's launched like a fowl. It climbs the stairs of lift and down,
and after the gallop it tramples the bramble peat.
Whatever it is, this dream, it is joy, but too bitter.
It is disgrace. It is sown, gathered, published and declared,
until the need for another disgrace is the only answer left.

It is dreamed—it is disgraced. It is joy,
but too bitter. It is a comfort
and a song you sing. Maybe a desire that is left and surrounded
by darkness and a heartless soul.
But no, it is dreamed, disgraced, with social unnecessity—
but a need when the singular circle shows tonight.

There is a treason in believing that this is the best
of what is yet to happen, good or evil, and it must be evil
with this discomfort. And in hands
held high: the gloaming, the wine, the reckoning,
the blood. The cup overflows,
and with a burst, there is dawn—stop spinning.

Sometimes in the Middle of Midnight, I Tell You Everything and Pretend You Can Hear Me

No one listens and no one understands
And that's how we know we live falsely.
That's how uncertainty traipses through the door
And how we know you can never fix me.

Around the campfire with comfort and cold
There is a forbidden desire for warmth.
And as the flames climb the unwitting ladder
We never accept the need for a choice.

And no one gets to join the circle of one
Because now is not yet the time.
And no one really knows what to expect
Even though there is no need for a sign.

And so I pray for you many days
Because I don't have enough faith.
And I never pray for my own strength
Because my faith makes me feel too safe.

But I assure you that there will be a great day
When the fire path unlocks this cold cell.
People will walk cautiously through the door
And for you all love will be made well.

Shabbat XII

My heart is a little girl
lying all but dead
on a bed.

And you,
my dear friend,
say, Talitha kum!

Shabbat Crook (XI)

Out on a green pasture,
The blue light coming down from the sky,
Stands the whole flock.
Sheep, waiting for the shining sun to warm the day
As the dew damps the grass,
Where their legs push past the flowers—
Yellow and purple and white.
And over in his den,
The wolf waits, lying on his bed of wool,
Watching movies of the kill over and over in his head.
The songs of dying lambs playing softly in the back.

A villain,
Once a week the wolf joins the green pasture,
Moving past the yellow and purple flowers,
Waiting for a sheep to walk past so he can bite its legs.
But this is the day where the sheep all gather together,
Bleating and laughing as time passes,
So the wolf must go join what he can't abide.
And the sheep know he comes to join them—
They know there may be a thief among them,
Whether or not he feels guilt for his violence, once or twice a week.
So he bites a leg…

And hears a growl,
As that sheep turns to him,
Loosely fitting skin folded over a mouth of sharp teeth.
Astonishment, as the wolf draws back
And falls in the wet grass.
The snout of his brother, dressed so wickedly,
Sneers and grins as saliva forms on the lower lip.
You'll ruin everything!
And so the wolf stumbles back to his den, hungry,
But loving the feeling of pain in his belly.
And he blocks off the movies, listening to the songs of dying,

Lambs playing softly in the back.