Hope

After the devil walked out,
I set the house on fire.
A cleansing.
I went North to see the See-er.
She agreed with me.
We talked about herbs and tea
and the guns of history.

My dad stepped in as if he was
there all along. I tried not to,
but the Tulips were in full bloom.
The honey bees called me
by a given name.
I am on separation from myself,

and as ghosts came and went,
I left my silhouette behind.
I joined a rainy city for a brick
talk, but we spoke nothing.

The See-er followed me with a snap.
I jumped back to her possibility.
She meant to cut it at the stem
but I got more than usual,
and the Tulips changed color, over and over.
And during the middle of all Of this,
I found what she grew.
Hope.

Map To Agony

I made a thick map to agony where
blackbirds fly with molten wings,
cackle over swart prattle;
corrupted gut remains.

But, I cannot go.

I am busy.
I am Feeding on seeds of raw season
ardor.

Piles of sediment – particles soaked in grief – had been
heart raked,
sowed deep down inside hollow ground.
Alone with dark space.
Rooted.

In ten years, never could I have plucked up
as easily.
A sanguine, green gaze lifts rust cakes
from my wrists,
then my ankles,
then my eyes,
then my smile.

Then, I am moral.
There, I am valued.

Agony is an old white pillow that I
spit pneumonia on to.
It is Elvis Presley in fake fever morning.
It is six am deer fly kicks.
It is curled up on hard washroom
floor board.
It is repulsive reassurance;
malnourished.

I made a determined map to agony, where
nothing suffices,
dead things grow more dead
under night’s greasy carnivorous sweats.

But, I cannot go.

I am busy.
I am busy planting luster

with a green gazer,
with flexible wrists,
with fleshy eye-lids in restful reassurance.
I am nourished.