Recurring Dream
i dream of being [cold] without cover
spilling from my mouth
pearl strands of quilted grieving
i spit into the Atlantic
i spit toward the Moon in the morning
crystal-bright at night i swallow my teeth & dream
unraveling sunset into bowls of emeralds
buckets of beloved hand-food
& docks salted in mourning
looking up at the inhalation
orange ruptures kiss the crush
of hovering
& bruising
she asked me for seashells
from my trip to the ocean
we would use them like cans on string
a long & listening roar through dark sky silence
but there is nothing left on the shore
to give her
Return Me, Contents Unopened
I try not to write about the holy or sacred, never knowing, but it slips into my pages like cold sheets. Or I find it oozing through cracks in floorboards, my foundation saturated without any asking. Though I’ve never tasted sacrament or sacrifice, or purity, when I die—I want to wear blue. I want to go out quietly. The organist should weep for me while playing In the Bleak Midwinter. I heard Sam Cooke died in his Jesus Year. So, like him, I plan to own everything I touch by November. I suppose if someone does come asking, please tell them that I can swallow lambs whole and recite mouthfuls of poetry.