You do not need to tell me who you are.

Instead listen to a wreath, a temper unfold.

Listen, feel, then behold

A gentleness broken inside itself, flourishing against the pieces

Your hidden stories limned the edges of your gaze

Unashamed of the buttons that were left untouched

Your unquiet longings vivid in your breath

You finish nothing; once again, time running like a child told

With a half-glance, you fathom the splendors of these strange planes

And just like that, like that, this is gone

Only the tendrils of your despair unspooling in the silence

While bristled bunches of joy dismantle your sovereignty thru one notice, one glance

Keep the leavings of this bitter season deep in your chest and behind your eyes

Tell me instead what you see when you look.

Tell me instead what you see when you

let the windshield water run. Those runes

of your shadow self, the light between dark

fanged wantings, these are dangers to read.

But you’re not seeing, you’re looking. Afraid

of smoothing memories, of losing seasons,

you turn, the mirror a shimmering wave

in your wake. Today is mostly the space

you slump in between yellows and reds,

like highway puddle and taillight glare

are your landmark, the lighthouse you aim for

through mist. Tomorrow, you might miss

how concrete is unyielding; today, you

look at water, a river, curious, blue, carving.

Look at water, a river, curious, blue, carving

at my gold-flecked uncertainty, my sore silver edges

Everything important looks closer underwater

Some greater purpose, swollen, but I have worn the wrong shoes

I make puddles all the same, muddy swirls of shade

My longing leaves tracks all through the house

I cover them with worry but they still talk back

Maybe this is evidence of a year spent in quiet

A century of listening, there are mice in these walls

Humming little hunger songs and waiting for me to finally

Put an end to their sadness, I'll throw them a banquet

Spread out all my possible futures like charcuterie and

Marbled cheeses that smell of red loam in summer

Drown out the sounds of sorrow in baroque pot banging, maybe sprout wings

To float, flit, fly even, as I

Listen, no matter how many times

Listen, no matter how many times

We fall backwards towards one another

Defying all reason and rhyme

Nearness comes before we seek the other.

I hear the call of your heart, like a Siren's song

Veins and vessels longing to run aground

Like the tide, and blood, to this push and pull I'm drawn

Magnetic eyes, our words as wind -- time unwound.

Speak your Soul to me. I will listen.

Unbend your shadows. I will stay.

Let us bridge this gap, this isolating division

Two arms, two hands, two bodies sway

This ancient dance, waking catastrophes with skin so tough

You have been told you are not good enough

you have been told you are not good enough.

do not let that cast a shadow on your soul

the yew bends towards ever-coming spring

harvest its blossoms - build yourself a crown

to toss into the air and catch, joy

linger there, feel the soft petals rejuvenate you

the body knows only this pleasure:

to roll down the grassy, wet hill, breathless

to let the new body love, fearless

to leave behind self-doubt, weightless

linger there, forget what you have been told

stretch your limbs up to the sky and drink deep

the blue is boundless. The rest -

It is not true. Look, the world offers you

It is not true. Look, the world offers you

a dozen truths hiding in the storm clouds of a thousand lies

What can you believe when trust is treading water

and sea grass rises like ribbons of death to pull you under?

I’ve heard all the latest conspiracies

the hushed whispers under willow, under oak

Still I know that sometimes trees become boats

floating on dark waters, still trees, only more

Buoyant, unfixed from their roots with a little wind

Here, a truth unspoken, call it first secret, forest known

Only to those who wash ashore to wake in its green

We make the forests with the seeds we drop

The only real seeds left:

handfuls of acorns, all of your memories, footprints

handfuls of acorns, all of your memories, footprints

come to all of us in precious timing between

one pair out of ten green moss toes, if you had to choose

would you be buried in soil or a riverbed?

I’d choose the soil but you knew that already. A brutal person like me

prefers roots between her fingers to know there is growth to come.

or did you mistake me for another root-growing thing?

there is only so much time each of us can spare

sparrow-people like us deal mainly in time-wasting, and

waiting on branches for our time to soar.

though perhaps I’ve said too much. Love after all is

plentiful if you look around for those who care

for loving, who when it rains sing,

In the muck, to be here is enough.

In the muck. To be here is enough.

To be free is what I dream

To be heard is what I want

Is it asking for too much?

The irremediable dizziness of the break

This undeclared battle between my temporal and parietal lobes.

It was real? Or does my body imagine every piece of it?

The sensation coursing throughout my being, releasing a dose of dopamine.

The beating of my heart on the surface of my skin

Alone. Sitting in silence. Pondering how did it all come to this.

With no strength left inside

Lying on the ground in the still of the moment. Asking.

While the warm liquid fills me up

And can you hear it? A quiet rumbling.

And can you hear it? A quiet rumbling

after the trauma of sudden sleep: the world

stretches, scratches its tired face, shakes

at what waking has wrought: bodies burning,

trees crying, leaves pulled back like hands from the flames.

No one and no thing warms by these fires. Ashes

lie cold, a flimsy barrier against the growing whimper

and collective wail: those the reckoning left behind.

And can you feel it? A slow vibration

under the feet, the ground trembling as if

it could know, does know, what comes up from beneath it:

anger, sulfurous and molten, subsuming grief,

exhorting all to move, to move, to move,

a noise from somewhere both far and close.

A noise from somewhere both far and close

reversed in my head like a bell in slow mo

drowning in its lingering hold, its pervading spin

turned around and then recollected on one tone, submerged in

wildly we are faint and uninterrupted with the scene

as the morning shades, the city's movement is heard in a disruptive flash

a movement so abrupt, so bold, so grand

that felt like navigating the ocean

wandering blind for calm

finding sense and comfort in the expanding dark

a carefree dark that unfolds and binds

whatever you were running away from

is no longer a shadow but a gifting presence

at the same time, everything you ever needed.

At the same time everything you ever needed

Is hidden deep inside, yourself.

But you might need someone to help you hold a mirror

To reflect what you might not

Have known was always

One. All a world is all but none

I know you’ve been gone from the world

But I am here to get you home. In the darkness of All things that were so incredibly loud

Despairing your dreams as they’re crumbling down, like: BAM-BAM, BOOM-BOOM, POW.

But there is also deep stillness, a quiet, if you can reach it

Sounding off the pain, and reflecting back a gain, of power. Love.

And the greatest gift of all: Serenity.

Listen, there is a lesson here.

Listen, there is a lesson here,

Isabella cannot be afraid.

Sweet child, breathe in the breath that calms your soul.

Trying to calm the waters

from the rampant currents of swirling emotions;

that rise up toward the raging wind’s bellowing voice –

Demanding action: Cry. Scream. Wail. Laugh. Be.

Without hesitation,

she looks to the horizon painted blushing mauve and loving lilac

and breathes in the healing colors.

Battling heartbeats slow while nerves ease

and the winds cease…

Imagination springs forth with revived passion –

a wild waiting to welcome your soft body.

A wild waiting to welcome your soft body,

An ephemeral bloom at your arrival.

Always in the periphery of living, the embered rim of your gaze.

Distant thunder, fevered movements, falling water pools and presses on,

Your stride thick as dewdrops hanging from the green tongues of morn.

Full-throated pain and prostrate agonies relent embraced in low hanging mist,

The dream where two skies entwine to subdue to dusk.

Ribboned blossom clad rushlights bathe celebrants in your love-glow.

Holy luminescence emerges from the cavern temples dwelling between each of your toes.

Chanting ancient blessings you rise through earth, past mineral formations concentrated in time, past rootlets exchanging ions, past tunneling small pink nosed creatures into

Chasms of truth offered as wisdom when the memories of you cease to offer solace

When the smallest gesture, an offering of hope, transmutes wish into will, separateness into connection,

here, where the love we have come to know as stranger becomes abundant, here, in the air between our song where we had first spoken our own names, here, where we had spread the continent of our understanding to melt to compassion,

here, into the web of things.

here, into the web of things

where loneliness rumbles with despair

my mind weaves in and out through the corridors

of the secret room that lies within: a memory

a memory illusive to time as it expands and retracts

like the delicate sound of a ghost, the softness of an absence

into the abyss we go, to find all of which we've been trapped in

: ourselves, howling, isolated creatures, wild children

cyclically becoming, adhering to, and transforming

the spiderweb that spins in my head

leaving me torn between who I am now and who I was then

gathering all the different personas that lie within

a synergy that has left me wondering... If a river splits into two rivers, does it get a new name?

If a river splits into two rivers, does it get a new name?

Or does the fork sit with your various silver, untouched.

I don't remember water the same way I used to—

is it container or contained?

Am I separate or same. I ask

"how long can one stand in the middle?"

I think to myself, "I am a boulder," meaning

the edges are softer than the center

meaning I am a poet and how strange

to think of the moon at a time like this

but then again I am always thinking

of the moon at times like these and

being a poet means that ends are always.

When we dream of trees what do they mean? Is it a cliché?

When we dream of trees what do they mean? Is it a cliché?

Probably. But what isn’t at this point? I wonder

which beliefs bloom from the ears or the heart

like cymbals crashing together. Branches that

intertwine while competing for the sun teach me

everything I already know. When I miss

who I used to be, I remember the times that

I was hardly even there. A slip stream of

consciousness told me to run into the wild

and to become moss. Yes, I said, yes

this is how I was always meant to be.

When howling is a thing of belly

I allow my body to remember how it's untamed.

Who do you call when you wake in the middle of the night forgetting?

Who do you call when you wake in the middle of the night forgetting?

Visions of my dog’s funeral ring into black empty spaces

and I wonder how the passage of time takes us through open doors.

The ceiling provides no solace in questions fostered inside clammy hands

so instead I step into portals, blinding light, images of starseeds, and

incarnate paralysis of how far I fall to go to sleep. When I drift off

we’re able to reunite within dark matter, and the memories I still keep

hide away, betrayed by unknowing desire to lose my innocence.

When I wake I’m met by breaks in sunlight shining into my face.

Warmth makes me realize that I visit suffering too often than I should

and the love that’s inside me is closer than I originally thought.

Unable to blink, I find myself growing fond of the ringing in my ears

until it grows silent and I am once again left with my own thoughts.

If you speak alone to yourself, how can you tell it’s not in your head?

If you speak alone to yourself, how can you tell it’s not in your head?

The purple light at dusk is just a way to register longing.

Purple breath lingers sound & escapes her chest cavity.

Goodbye to grief, she says, but doesn't believe it, or

why must she...say pandemic goodbyes over & over?

This year that the calendar cut away from itself

facial masks, clear screens, blue plastic gloves, fists & elbow bumps,

and a cryptic message on her phone: Voyage around X...

texts about trees & fire burning skin—where is the sun?

Day had concluded again, too soon.

Into the moon night-stars aflame

Into her dreams old fears bleed

baby coos, booboos, tears, sobs & laughter.

What do you throw in the fire that is built outside your door?

What do you throw in the fire that is built outside your door?

The cremation of what was never meant to be

But the shrieking of unwanted bones will echo

Across that ancient inflammation, a jangling heartbeat

Reverberates the call to wipe away its only lingering woe

As if the ceaseless injunction to incinerate could resolve

What mattered most; the time it took to bare the waking incarnation of a hopeful soul

Stretched three wingspans with a few bent feathers

And leather look ; taking heed into the unfamiliar crossing of an unknown road

Sure to skip shadows in the asphalt from power lines

Tied up and fused with the mystery of their insides

A singular bird settles in the crosshairs

Accepting of its shadow and beautiful intention

Is the call of a crow a beautiful or a sad song?

Is the call of a crow a beautiful or a sad song?

Never wondered until when I began singing along!

With my voice still weary, my eyes closed, from the night before,

Head little heavy, but bobbing to the tune of the crow!

I grabbed my shoes, ran outside, met my friend perched on the porch.

Seeing through yesteryears' blind faith, having faith in my friend

Alone. His wings spread, his beak as bright as a lit up torch.

Beacon of hope, only visitor, till pandemic's end.

Here we are, writing poems, ‘bout a bird we used to know.

Planting hope in hourglass' sand, rewriting our old fables

For we’ve come far, but we still have much to learn, much to grow,

Rediscovering, child-like, new patterns in old marbles.

And as the end is near, one must wonder, one must seek,

What lesson do stinging nettles attempt to teach?

What lesson do stinging nettles attempt to teach?

I keep opening the book like my hands

will find tenderness ready to unfold among

fingers as wildflowers. I tried to listen

to the harvest when the leaves started to curl and

wow, did it have a lot to say. I tell you,

there is no shame in turning back into yourself.

This is the way of the world. Meaning,

we must look back on what we started to learn

like blades of grass, the way birch bark curls

uncovering what is new. Do you remember

how you felt that morning. Not the first, but

when you realized we were mirrors to each other.

Do you smile when you catch eyes with a stranger?

Do you smile when you catch eyes with a stranger?

Or have harrowing consanguinity blemished expectations for painless connections?

Creating a story in your mind to quench lonely desires.

Decades misspent until one morning you whoop, "Cue the confetti!"

I'll spend my days loving myself!

Surfing riptides through barrier reefs, cresting effervescent waves of

oceanic adventures. Frequency mellowfied by

sweet froth, anointed by leeward teardrops.

You and me and the sea make three.

Triumvirate! Is this uninvited stranger not cloaked as we?

How curious to implore mercy to a mermaid?

Sea salt awakening childlike innocence, denuding the divine school.

Breathless encounters mere smirky seconds

When the moon phases through its cycle, do you track the tides?

When the moon phases through its cycle, do you track the tides?

I do. Swiftly, with a pen arched through constellation

of me forgetting memories of how a sky can forget

because the sky ages too, meaning

comes, when one knows how not to look up

and tonight the new moon, speaks

with my head buried on my desk — drenched

in the sweat of yesterday's list. What waits

are the longing clouds that scribbles... regrets

are half-moons themselves, slivers

slithers the silver-fingers on asking — how

will we move forward? What can I

reminisce under our stars — Bravery, on-palms

Did you remember to call your mother at the end of the world?

Did you remember to call your mother at the end of the world?

Would you have a word for her now, after a lifetime of silence?

Ambulance sirens I never paid attention to before, now hearing every wail,

Washed-out billboard signs by the highway, to buy a new pair of jeans, try a new cocktail

Constant motion city seizes in lockdown standstill, only the hospitals throb,

You feel your hands further and further away from touch and in that pause

Time suspends in what seems an impenetrable glance to life lived,

-First your teeth, then your face, then your hands, first your teeth, then...

sing happy birthday in your mind while you fully wash hands, taken for granted now real.

I imagine my mother sitting towards the sunset, by the sand, by the water,

I am gazing now out window views cut off from sun, from sky, from street

As if what I always thought I knew has now newly, strangely, just begun,

How many world-ends has she witnessed since you were born?

Is hand washing a different kind of ritual?

Is hand washing a different kind of ritual?

Something that cleanses and redeems us from germs?

We don’t pretend that the belief comes between

The hoping to be safe and the doing

penance. We keep all the air we can hold.

Stocked up in our lungs, anticipating

cold in our wrists, deliberating

What to do when this is all over.

We keep what we took when it’s over.

The memories become artifacts in the libraries of our hearts.

There was nothing to do with the memories.

The flow of the tap water keeps us moving forward

and we leave it on. And you with a cup that you brought here from home:

when the wind picks up, do you feel afraid or do you love change?

“When the wind picks up, do you feel afraid or do you love change?”

Us children gathered restlessly in rings, nestling

Around solemn-eyed Ava, reading from a list of questions,

A personality quiz she’d stolen, maybe from her mother’s magazines,

But sparkling with additions that she must have made herself.

“Do you see ghosts flickering at twilight, or only empty space?”

With great deliberation, picking at my pigtails, I looked out

At all my peers, choosing the answers that would reveal

Our future soulmates. Was I a courageous person, a lover

Of change, a person who deserved tremendous company?

“Would you rather have gills and swim, or wings and fly?”

I whispered to Kayla-with-the-quick-grin, deciding

That what she chose I’d copy, that we’d match.

“Do you think of a response while someone is still talking or are you a violet?”

Do you think of a response while someone is still talking or are you a violet?

She’ll listen, she’ll promise. Yet, she’s thinking.

Is that a Snapper on the wall?

A red fish? I think she has been drinking.

Violet liqueur, likely, it makes her talk.

Broad shoulders and dark eyes? She’ll be winking

like a star between Jupiter and Mars—

he’ll smile, walk over, glasses a-clinking,

crazy eyes lit like the wolf-moon.

She declines his lure for interlinking.

Better to mix yeast and flour and water,

sugar and eggs for a sweet cake baking.

It’s the proper response to any question.

At the end of the world do you make bread or something else with your hands?

At the end of the world do you make bread or something else with your hands?

When bread is the new world and hands are our saviors;

Our tongues flames with a lick of salt,

Reality elongates into fingers, tongues, loaves and salty edifices.

Streets and avenues begin to flow past like Sunday mornings,

while bursts of memories come to life in the brave left behind,

memories that bloom in the trees in the prickly spring,

then turn ripe in the amber harvest,

to bring a touch of warmth to the city.

Who am I then? Who prefers to dream instead of remember,

what the world was before my hands began a new one in New York City

I who see each train car crossing the Hudson as an empty sepulchre.

I should like to no longer wait for NJ transit.

I should like to no longer wait for NJ transit -

the open road doesn't feel like itself when i'm on it.

Unease seeps, floods up from the familiar route,

in the darkness, keep it light: say it's just a mood

and don't let that unsettling sense overpower —

these train track lines on my face reveal all my hours

spent speared on a needle of needless lost time,

it's not wasted if you want it - i keep saying it’s fine

and if you don't want it, well, let's just pretend

it's the light, not a platform, where this tunnel ends

Winding through the dark, in mute anticipation

maybe it’s the journey to fear, not the destination

In any case the carrier comes, and so I expect

to be seated, 80s scatter of carpet

To be seated, 80s scatter of carpet

and looking up at some ceiling of

well-placed gems ready to guide me.

I always knew that constellations were

like gems, a reflection of the state I once was

a long echo of history, time

evaporated, an even distilled consciousness

tumbling out like marbles themselves

Their chaos is joy and will be remembered

here from this ground, looking out

Even if I remain alone

I have the rain, constellations of

the ever-remaining oneness of us

should like the smear of weeds outside