I must say that this one is maybe my favorite mini poem from this project. It feels light weight but solid, like memory foam.
Come crawl the window-still between the beams
Of light and night. Whip curtains to the sun
With stunts of crooked weaves and leaves, for now.
Rest. For now, be free to seize the grass roots
And soak their light, tonight your tender heart
Unfolds fern hands against a garden rod
Embrace the sod between toes and fingers
What tinkers there, meant for no mere mortal.
Spin reeds from weeds, button seeds in the earth
And know how the loom rows in the darkness.
No more cancer, no more cures. Your words are
Palms beneath mountains shoving them to peak
We speak of greatness from the ground what sound
Your soul that sows your linger’d love to life.
On Modern Art
No matter width or stickiness
oil on cloth— motivates brushstrokes
to static-electric telepathy
between minds. Where one eye sees
a woman and the other sees a waltz;
where the two are one. Not a woman
waltzing but the dichotomy of
impossibilities. A body. A dance. A hand.
A brushstroke. Artists painting paradoxes:
Neither dancing nor standing still.
for my grandfather upon his death… in conversation with the brahman poem from several months before.
Come walk the windowsill between light and
Night. Shut the curtains on the sun, forget
Preoccupations trivial once yours
You are free now. Seize it like the grass roots
From the earth. Your worth no longer tied to
The ticker tape tally of time, a fist
Could crush the grandfather clock; why bother
With trifle threads in the loom, consume them
With the mouth of the sea. Be the palms beneath
Soil shoving mountains to their peak. We speak
Of cancer; of pain; never again. Now
You are free to live amongst miracles.
What fortune, the body merely a loan,
At last, no longer limited by bones.