angels in the windowpane
watch over all this change
frost & steam billowing
behind thin plastic sheets
i hear an angel singing
from the street

dropped some leaves
some petals into my tea
branch against the windowpane
branch against the sun
smoke & steam & the warmth
of water resting in my gut

pour out your tea
to read the leaves
i see hills & valleys
in the mud of coffee
a clear glass bowl
full with water & blood
i gaze & pray it takes
away libation’s tug

to read the leaves
will be for later
once all the smokey water
has filled me, so the leaves
know me, so they know
where to land
gazing a prayer into the bottom
of this mug
my tug is for
the hills & valleys
& frost in the cracked mud

what does the mud do
in southern swamps?
in your well-beaten paths
back & forth to cities
of soft swollen bog
does december sun
pierce fog? i forget
what you have yet
to tell me, secrets
of your love & land
i do not know so well
as this northern point
still not cold enough
for frost heaves to swell

the mud churns as if stirred
by what moonlight can reach
through the canopy of trees
there is much to tell i feel
there is more to show you
light travels differently than sound
sound gets to know the shadows
gets to steep in what once was
sound is vessel for memory, then
is the great usher for experience
expressed it is the frost heaves
sent to swelling glistening in
variations of light

living in the law of octaves
i begin with my lowest hum
deep thrumming in my chest
i beat it to release, thumping
you glowing, most green
verdant spout, O my heart

forty octaves up, i see
fine pastel vibrations
rainbows of sound
delivering memories
i have yet to live

i am down to the leaves
movement a ring of movement
& partial eclipse over everything
as it comes together, forming
what we can know
what we cannot know
memories we have yet
to live & a law of octaves
to deliver their sounds

ringing in my ears
bright white & pale green
in my eyes always
everything is shining
auras or halos? 
what is this gift
this future sight
fantasy or prophecy?
i lose faith, find it again
in tiny objects placed
at my feet, by who?
i wish to sing, empty
enough to be filled
by every name

gift of sight
fantasy or prophecy:
does it matter
which it is?
or does it matter
what is done with it?
the objects you placed them
there, i did, they did, we
did, all of us place
that which matters most
that which we find
faith in our song
the names which we fill
at one another’s feet
& at our own
it is that we must touch
what we remember
to grasp it to hold
light met with sound
when the thing itself
is distant enough
to be just out of reach

& the stretch of our limbs
in trying to touch it
while knowing we won’t

this is the work:
the strike of our hooves
forever moving forward
the light that illuminates
for a single burning moment

it matters
what we do
with all of it
even if that is
leaving it all

O sage,
what do your leaves say?

the leaves say,

we connect
a circle to hold
the space

the leaves say,

there is more to come
a galaxy of more
it is all waiting on the walls
of the sky

the leaves say,

form with wonder
form walk
form weaves together
indefinitely & form
is indefinite, considerably
worry not how
form takes

trust your form
trust you move well;
it is what the winter will
ask of us all

it is all written
on the wall of sky
these hands built
over the windowpane

with circles of angels’
trumpets & bells
silent for now

it is all waiting
for the hail to return
& fill in lace circles
with what winter
wants us to know

i will trust your trust
in the coming snow.



anomali & mille poet the distance/06.december, 2015