in the sand

in the dark, subterranean world of water spilling over moss, rocks bleeding,

there is a harmony of justice, replete, an iron vase broken in the fist,

the hard stare coming slowly, inching past despair to

some irrefutable union, a right unbroken, heralded still as one who survives,

is lethal, can convince

beyond a doubt, instill, enact, forestall . . .

I heard her in the darkness, moaning the one syllable she

could contrive, twirling around her own unique maypole

with blood burning, eyes opaque and

blurred, shuddering, freezing -- She saw me, the one there,

in the distance, ironing his smile, leaving

off where she began, telling her amid the frenzy

of her lies, her joys, her sudden blossom, about

and not because, of all the things that would be told

his had utmost in her horizon the beam of

light fulfilled, occasional, divine -- I heard her there, in the darkness,

counting, late, iridescent,

shallow, blue -- She was the mute goddess of the moment,

balancing on a pin, devouring raw the

uproar surrounding her . . ..

She had to give in, had to hold it close so that it wouldn't die,

so that it could thrive in the murk, this baby, this infant straddling life,

choosing its words with a sudden glory, this eye shining,

that one closed, all it would be revealed in slow blood circles

of lined intensity, the bursting instance

of a glance gone haywire, these the bold rocks shattering

the creek surface, shimmering in the

sun's glare, occult, aware . . .

I began life as an urchin, a treesprout gone wild,

some unstilled moment of deliverance,

these the icons glowing in the mist, my fortune

would play out on the craggy beach, I would hold

her there in my embrace, sheltering her body against the wind,

my sore feet inching slowly across

the rock, there to dive in, there to surrender, this day

the holiest as this is the day I died, I died

again . . .

Is there a man alive that can match me, she asked?

Is there somewhere the conjoined

spouse pining for an unknown Sister, a breath on the neck,

gold chains in the hand, the sutured

instant of cold-love in a barren world?

It counts. It is the One to be. (That is, she will hold me

against my Will and I will

scratch and kick until I'm spent,

unglued and unattainable.) She hit me in the face with the back

of her hand and I collapsed,

groaning at her feet, this She-goddess, this Night-Mistress, all black in

spades, imprisoned and forlorn,

these the minute-toes grasping in the Sand, uncoiled, nervous, bare . . .