"light-house"

the body of time is a star-map,
guiding our ship, swollen
with vast decks of cannons,
___like a cup or a palm brimming
___with the too-sweet dreams of men;

dreams that hover over the hulls
like mist— lusty lullabies
___of land-locked women, all
______breasts and bodices.
___and maybe the commodore
______dreams in diagrams? or
______sometimes of the choleric pearl
______sweatings of his
youngest son?

______or, once, a glass
______house filled with light?

and once i dreamt that time
branched backwards
and forwards in too many
tunnels and wormholes, a thousand or more.

_______________last night i dreamed a map
____________on the commodore’s palm,
_________and of following him to the cusp
______of the earth and plunging
___down the star-deep
cavern of time,

where i met star-fishes and
conversed with nebulas,
pulsing like primordial
jellyfish in a frozen sea.

"pyre, prayer"

today, harvesting flames
from the great dragon tree—
roots tangling and leeching,
withered like a tumor of
the bed-locked, dying earth.

i offer my prayer, blowing
petals on the ground and watching them
skirt and spiral like vipers
or paper kites amongst
the ash.

the ruby dragon sleeps
at the center of the world, busy
knowing and knowing.

now and then, volcanoes
sprout from the ocean.
now and then, the earth
stretches and moans and grows
wide.

i love the pumice smell
of dragon’s breath,
born and born and born.
blue, red,
green, brown,
sway, subside, succeed—

dragon fire birthing
the phoenix earth.

"poemworm"

i’ve learned
the wisdom of the silkworm,
known the soft
cradle of the dirt.

i’ve listened
to the flicker of the great
tree-heart,

i’ve thought tree thoughts,
many-rooted and gossamer.

i have spun silver
silk all night and day;
i have netted the sun,
like an ancient fish, flashing
goldenrod here and there
in the brine,
fish-mouth
surprised and gasping.