In the open maw of memory Where things stand, blurred by rain, The glare of sun, and the glaze Of retrieval, we sit, retelling Stories (which we have told To others, some of whom were Only us, masked and changed By time) as if knowing what lies Behind us will tell us something Of what lies beyond, as if the triumphs And betrayals of sex and love read Right would enable us to divine, From the tarot cards laid on day's table, The true weight of the body And the weightlessness of love.

Over the whisper of end static I continue to sink into the long weight Of riverine notes where desire hammers Each taut string inside the black box Of these flights that your fingers take Across ribbed piano keys of my chest.

I firmly believe that one must do something that scares them everyday

What is scarier than facing Your own face in the mirror After a night of deep sleep?

Stagnant hours were written down In your bones, which will, perhaps, Never find the cage in a museum, Into which other spirit-quickened Bones will peer at, to read the verdict Handed down to them at the end of time.

This knowledge turns you away From the thread bareness of yourself, This knowledge that nothing survives Of a life, as it is made and unmade, Except the riverstone of love.