love, the other weather

where the blankets cover

beds of the raining lands

over heads

wisps of winds

and the when of currents

vexes droughted grounds,

with brings hope

seasons change with,

condensing into we,

where the gables channel

like the folded hands

at the altar-

then warm is love and

bright are days

when the other weather

becomes a sun in springtime lands

together smiles at eachother.

dust collects inside a house

as snow upon the mountaintops

dust to dust, ash to ash

death to life, spring

is lovely to the senses

pleases with its warmth

and scents, colors bright

the sunlight as it waxes, but

movement is illusory,

for it betrays the moment:

juxtaposed against the sky

the ground is pregnant, and

potent are the petals

tucked behind the bud

and pressed into darkness

words between the pages

(after the duomo in siena)

in your house, o God,

polished stones cry out

(did they suffer

as the saints and martyrs

brought up from the ground

and glorified?)

i can hear them

through the candle's whisper

(in your house, o God);

do the upright ones

strain against the weight

of stories up above

the saints and martyrs

brought up from the earth

and glorified?

the windows speak

a word, and it was

(as if from your Mouth)

in your house, o God.

when i enter, do you Go,

or does the wind of your spirit

sweep across the floor

while the incense of each whisper

is Inhaled by heaven's lungs

of those who warm its breath,

in your house, o God

how bright do electric lights

shine upon your Face,

transfiguring, as it were,

imago dei,

or as you were

brought up from the ground

and Glorified.

we try to gaze upon it

(in the midst of the stories)

but we shine as though

a flicker

in the incense of your house

and now we still see

dimly

in your house, o God.

don't undarken

desire:

in essence

it's breve.

and in ten minutes

it's getting to me

floppy red draped from her hips

(her sister Rosa looked down

on her, behind a veil,

her face so white)

and the words come out in drips

when in the morning, waking

to a breath

under a mutter

lips grasp for another

and pointed towards the ceiling

trips out of bed, (reverse of

last night. beneath

a tattered curtain)

decorates eyes for

a wedding, they're so in love

like charcoal sticks, my words are frail

and break against the paper

they fail to sketch your perfect face

or moments in your presence-

instead, my weightless beating chest

surrenders to white blankets,

sighs of silence from my mouth

in place of lofty verses-

oh! such vain imaginations

steal draped feelings into flight,

tempting them to try transcribing

dreams into subsistence.

still, i'd rather sing of naught,

seal description in my head

lest i try rewriting lines

already perfected.

old semantics on the lawn,

these architectons stacked upon

eachother atop soggy grass

fall under the weight of

themselves.

(ancient bricks on newborn mud)