Still Life

standing in the field

at nineteen I dreamed of

a total freedom

in the names of men who sounded wise

their voices spoke a labyrinth in the

candor of jungle birds

tightened rope bridges across

to the home one was always leaving to tell

words with sounds

twirling threads from the chest

rising up, up, the palms

a tenuous glance

a bridge

woven from the backs of golden dogs

a trance

the tail chasing of gurus

their windmill eyes merging

one by one

across the foothills

tall ghosts outside of themselves

leaving wet foot-marks on the rocks

smoke hearts tied to the trees

sea foam fingerprints

across a fading name

the shape of the wound

packed with spring sapwood

a splinter the eloquent banter

of still life

never meant to make