Tuesday, October 25, 2011



I can see in your eyes

the immolation of the sumac

and the blue ghosts being exorcised

from distant fires on the autumn hillsides

like mountains that now grovel in the dust at your feet.

I can see in your eyes the crumbs of the dreams

you pennied away like wishing wells in your sleep

where all the best lies that come true

sell out when they wake up like reviewers

to a second edition of your life’s work.

I can see in your eyes there are no rust spots

on the lilac bloom of the joy you take

in matching your emotions

to the wine stains and blood spatter

on the broken towers of the hollyhocks

or the white stars that can be seen in broad daylight

in the ultramarine skies of the mystic delphiniums

shedding their eyelids

like a change of constellations on a starmap

that isn’t bound to the shapes of things.

I can see in your eyes a secret garden

you lead your lovers blindfolded to

and there the waterlilies mingle with deadly nightshade

in a potpourri of enlightenment

where a virgin breaks a wild unicorn

to ride it bareback down to the lake like moonlight

to teach it to drink its own reflection out of her hand.

I can hear your sexual mushrooms

waxing like moons in the dark

and the pillow talk you have with your heart

when there’s rain on the window

like tears you just can’t hold back.

You might think you’re as enigmatic

as water on Mars

or weather on the moon

but I can see the blue atmospheres

that once clung to you for life-support

holding their breath in the breathless immensities

and I can hear the ghost-written lyrics of the wind

you once gave your voice to

waiting on your summons like a seance

to live it all through you again.

I know you think you’re looking at life

through a broken windowpane

but I can see in your eyes

soft chandeliers of rain falling

on the bruised hills in the distance

and I can tell they’re made of water

not dark energy and anti-matter

by the flowers that bloom in their wake.

And it’s not hard to see in your eyes

how much the questions hurt

that you’ve given up asking

like a boyfriend who never calls you back.

And that must mean there’s something wrong with you.

Something wrong with love.

Something wrong with life.

Something in your eyes so indelible

you just couldn’t wash out it out

however far and deep

you cried yourself out

like underground rivers

into this glacial palace in a sacred ice age.

But I can see in your eyes a new moon

where you see an eclipse.

You’ve just closed your eyelids

to dream a little deeper.

You see a candle at a black mass.

You see a misfit in a glass slipper.

But I can see in your eyes

the light that it casts

is already one star ahead of the past

like Dubhe and Merak in the Big Dipper

pointing at Polaris like the spoke of a wheel

to the axis of the turning world

as it sweeps the dust of the day

like stars under the flying carpet of the night.

You see a mirage embodied in a urn of clay

and you say that’s who you are

and that’s what love is.

But I don’t see in your eyes

even when I plumb the depths of your pupils

any sign of a black dwarf

for all its massive gravitas

standing like a warden

at a huge black iron gate

to keep your light from getting out.

I can look straight through you

like a witching stick can find water

in the southern hemisphere of the moon

whether you’re on the dark side

or trying to hide in the shadows of lunar noon.

I can look into your eyes

and see the underground watersheds

your fountain heads are rooted in

like floral goblets full of poppy wine

that tastes like the sun at midnight.

And even when the skies are low and overcast

I can look into your eyes like a starmap

and read the first signs of a new zodiac

coming up to the east of your smile

where spring occurs in every one of them

and the celestial equator doesn’t cross the ecliptic

and hope to die like lovers

with their fingers crossed behind their backs.

And though I know I’m light-years off the beaten track

and your shining isn’t meant for me

I can see in your eyes

a new cosmology where the stars

are not fixed in place like the crown jewels

of Corona Borealis in the crystal palace of Arianrhod

behind unbreachable locks

on the dynastic houses of the Celtic dead

but move spontaneously like homeless fireflies

more intimate with things within reach

knowing whenever two of them meet

inspired by an exchange of insights

into what hues of radiance

to include in their paint box

to capture the picture-music of earth

it’s always the spring equinox

and all seasons are seasons of birth.