Look how the signs
root through the house.
Left to their own devices what
else are they going to do but fool around,
procreate, and prepare to desert.

Look into the kitchen, open the cabinets,
our spices have overgrown their neat
little racks, the cinnamon has doubled and tripled,
the half-used cream of tartar hides behind
the one newly bought, there are
two nutmegs, three cardamoms, the
basil, the rosemary, the tarragon all shuffle
among jars of well-aged air and
tiny oregano heaps. The chili, the jalapeno,
the green pepper juice huddle together
and pray for spontaneous
combustion but there is
no deliverance of heat.

Look upstairs,
where the bedroom cannot bear it at all
and hides under the covers, breathing its face
into the replicate indents of pillows.

Slip into the bathroom,
embrace its warm torso of steam,
thick and eager with portent,
watch pubic hairs coil along
the tiled salmon floor, never
despairing always resilient,
unused towels beg to absorb all passion, all tears,
a flood of rivulets tracks the shower glass,
lanky descendents spell something,
maybe, it's hell or

Maps

I study cartography
but maps do not
to reveal how
exquisitely the granite exfoliates
hinting
the avalanche

how the avalanche
in shedding itself
becomes a map

how the shedding itself
maps

Labyrinth

Think about the maze, is it
the private unseen heart, whether
treasure or lethal, or is it the mystery
we require, the virtual doors that
mimic walls, even traps, so
we lose ourselves as we must to
find what we had no
concept of losing. The language of longing is
like this, the vowels of desire, the consonants of
sex. We reconnoiter this terrain
as we mingle our feet, let them act as hands,
as we press our hands, let them act as feet,
unwinding and winding,
tracking the skin,
opening the face,
as we learn the slight brush of the nose as it
follows the scent of shoulders,
closely inhaled,
heat in the ear,
a small white delicacy,
the poised mouth,
the arched neck.

Window

A flight back like so many others
a seat at the window this time
the land moving underneath,
gesturing something,
something, something.        

The hands of the plain
flatten square and brown ,
grandfather hands who
cover something,
something, maybe
tender palms, albino seeds
under the nails,
rough borders for
the roofs of houses
pressed in mosaic,
their windows
tiny grandmother jewels.

The bony rise of mountains
flexes adolescent muscle,
feathered slopes tense up
and stretch to become something,
something newly borne on
the lifting heat, new and so
closely felt as if we could pose a
lure better than the sun.

The veins of the delta run down
to capillaries,
feed the tissue of oceans,
I can see the sweat of their salt rim
the grooves of the bay and
on my tongue I taste their spill
down the flanks of my cheeks,
so sweet to find
at this age,
this age
I need to tell you something,
something I know
so suddenly
so suddenly
as the wheels touch down
and we rock in the body of home.

Poetry Magazine