ACT OF TRANSFER
I watch my right hand
as it brushes across this paper,
my left hand holding the parchment still,
as a lover would cradle the face of his beloved.
Why do I dull myself on paper
if what I write for is wholeness?
In this moment, I am thought that desires
to remain thought in the imprint of thought.
I have never found terror in a blank sheet of paper.
I’ve only ever faced the complexion of joy.
HEART AND MY HEART
Two for the sharing, the pulse in unison.
Two for the dialogue implied in it all.
Two for the lips that join to pronounce words.
One for the call and one for response.
One for agreement on what words signify.
Two for the language that answers accord.
One for the writing and one for the reading.
Two for the grasping, the holding in turn.
One for the murmur that trembles the blue air.
Two for the hands that mirror in prayer.
One for the lamplight and one for shared silence.
Your heart and my heart, the sacred text of this.
THERE IS NO POEM
Pen. Hand. The blue
receipt of paper that bears.
How this world.
Writing to mark
tension of ink across white paper
tension of air moving across skin.
To punctuate the light curving
from blonde to deeper burnish—
tension against its fading, the back
of my spotted hand as it holds
across the page. How this time.
The gold fleck of human light.
There is no poem that is not about death.