You leant forward as I was explaining 1729, mad geniuses and, and before I could expound any further you leant forward. I fell, the falling was and is definate. There are lines we drew, I said I won't and you said you will not. But the first snow of the winter that was falling was the metaphor. We drifted around the edges like snowflakes in glass and kitchen. And all around milling people my eyes sought you, the adjacent edge the country whose border I later was to erase to become whole by leaning over, leaning into. But you leant forward, the flakes melted into a crystal, mingled and couldn't be stopped. And if these is anyone to blame for all this. its you for leaning forward as I was cubing integers forcing me build a cube around me and you.

And you repeat that again by leaning forward.

Morning light after flowing Through crystal and stone Pools in the heart’s chambers.

In it float, memories, shadows, Dust motes, irises, mirrors. Universes arrive and float away.

Questions remain for Lips to free answers, hands to free garlands. But I have been looking for the flower seller herself.

They report her different passages at different times. They report different names. But what bland taste does news have second hand!

Which alley should I then take brother? At which window should I command my eyes, To keep vigils? So I will wait here.

Give her this address: The light pool in the chambered heart, Between presences and absences.

after Rumi

It is fall again, And old wounds are laid bare. The cold epidermis flaps against Bones, a rag toy leaking wool.

Crisp leaves bury the sundials And nights lengthen across the meridians. I wake before light again, Clutching to my bony chest, the sum Of things, between us, left unsaid and undone.