many worlds

All the reasons the heart couldn’t form,

a humble stem/kitsch in your mother’s attic:
there’s a hundred hours left

still,and the sun won’t really set
just sway into someone
                  a world away, 

looks like you, looks like I,
holds a star like space holds/


Even how love, was the baby frog I kept
in my pencil case to bring 
along to school,

‘little buddy,’ because the softness
of empathy is there before words
get in the way

but only realized when we talk about it.

It’s likely not many notice
the beauty of someone young
holding their space fully/

or how         outside of god
we hold the words of many gods
we have loved in our memory:

I still will sing
at the end of the world
walk into storms the same way

a ghost can only be ghostly.

Eat the cake! I really think it is fine
and to love peculiar things
like tiny frogs and funny-nosed sloths:
because love informs when chaos
gentle at the gate is hot
and all-too-ready.

us, mirror

The way of a mind like a seed
on the wind floats up

instead of with the wind
somehow, or people born
wedged in sidewalk cracks

deep away from the sun
know where happiness
resides tumbling

upon its arrival:
in this I feel almost
a lucky misfit.

Even a self divided is
scattered like pages
lost within the house

with no binding.

I see windows in every room
that inform nothing except
where I have arrived from,

and, I, in every room
stitch a binding, day-
in and out, am

surrounded by a puzzle
of words on paper.

But aren’t us the
song? Aren’t us the
dream and

attuned to truth:
the paradox of remaining
genuine when a melody


a dark night of the soul

There are too many
versions of self lost from
many iterations/ I seeping
in tender aggression
over it/ I, containing
all echoes


and thinks in-between
such things where associations
flow without influence: I wonder
if the truth is there same
like a stem makes a leaf
makes a tree

in infinitum

‘the way of the way:’ waves
rising out of words we say
and up into another
like dust from an old coat
rises the still air in
the light

like galaxies,

because I need not define:
to wake and see a familiar
stranger constructed
from this seed (seed of
a stem or seed
of a leaf)

still rooting

maybe tangled
like The Beatles
Revolution 9 where love
was not enough, Lennon
planted everywhere
in pursuit of order

(like a theory of chaos)

because my words are fractals,
and people are words
becoming recursive- appearing
infinitely complex, but
if you follow each statement
back there was only a person

‘simply,’ in the beginning-

and my love will find me in
the rainforest again where
mountains meet the sea/
sometimes I fear a great wave
will come like I dreamed when
young and frightened or

he will find me driving completely
unrooted and free with only my heart
like a beacon- I am in Astoria or
Sedona, back to the hot trails of
youth chasing spiderwebs
in the sunshine

to hold tight/ even the insubstantial

and every thing an animal
can perceive=waves
bouncing from one onto another:
is wanting definition. Sometimes I will
antidote the need to define
with inattention/

until the echo goes on-

because people rooted
in sand: their roots don’t
tap the same way so
they grow them flying buttresses
scaffolding tender things
or like ivy choking

the heart(‘)s

like those grown in shade
of tall trees with small and
hanging pink flowers balloons
concerned with whether they are more
pink than red or more red
than is tender in


and how silly,
(when I was a little girl
laying on the cool concrete
watching the night for lightning
that arced like a spider’s web
thinking it evidence

of god)

a state of wonder
a wave forming outside of
else, only echoes its self
is outside of definition
like a balloon
maybe lost/ maybe

let go

looks like a dot
from so far away-
maybe I watch with
required wonder
maybe it can still reach

into the sun.