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Last night I dreamt a little red fox jumped over the round clear moon
I was the moon and you were the fox
That doesn’t matter though
What does is that right there in that moon jump was the magic I’ve been trying to get to forever
I woke sad and made it my work to find a place on the earth
Secret cool and soft
Where I could press my self my tongue into her yielding body
And taste again
That seething teaming wild place where things get made.
Savage.
Beautiful.
Home.
official: we’re sleeping together
You weren’t in the museum amongst the illuminated manuscripts.
And I can tell you, I looked really closely.
You weren’t in the vanilla chai latte I had later on in the cafe.
(The girl who made it could have told me that).
You weren’t in the gift shop.
Nor in the cry of the seagull on the roof.
And I (for one) couldn’t find you in the endless blue sky.
As I can’t see you now on these words.
Or in the spaces between these fingers which have been with me from the start.
So where are you?
I’ve made up my mind:
I’m going to start putting it about that we’re sleeping together.
How else – unless I’m spending eight with you out of every 24 – could I put up with any of this?
rumi
I just read a Rumi poem that pissed me off:
The one about the Love Dogs
About how the howl of the dog for its master IS the connection
Bollocks.
I can tell you right off:
This time around that’s not going to be enough.
the answer
Beautiful old willow
Last week curled and draped upon our river
Nodding sagely to the passing ducks
Today stands devastated
Split in two
by last night’s storm
Interior milk white grinning
Gaped entirely to the world
Tragic end to noble tree?
Or just the answer to the question it was asking its entire life?
up
i
Think: does crocus put the brakes on crocus?
Brave first flower.
Pale cup reaching, opening, gold heart first into the light.
Is crocus always questioning, ordering:
Not like that. Like this.
Purple, really?
White I think:
Improve or die unloved.
Always angry mending
Until crocus has no idea of how or why or which way now.
This must be our Fall From Grace
This mind
This Think.
ii
Hard enough pushing through blank earth
Black with ice
Eyeless indefinable nosing towards something: light perhaps.
Hard enough without that voice:
what did I tell you?-see?-who can love you?
Hard enough
Yet not hard at all
When there’s no other choice and only one direction.
Up.
clean shoes
It’s late and the soul picks her sweet way through the debris:
‘I can’t believe you said that, ate that, smoked that;
of course they don’t like you; why would they?;
look at the state of you’.
She picks her sweet way between smoldering rafters,
over burnt out stories.
Through smoke and flame and the charred remains of what has fallen.
I don’t know how she does it,
but even her shoes stay clean.