it is cold, we know
in this thin skin
we carry ’round with us
it is cold beneath the sheets
like linen in winter
that has not seen a body
it is cold

i would gather the books
and all the written word
and set them ablaze
to keep us warm
but while ink and paper
set spark to the great fires
they are not sufficient
in and of themselves
so we will lie frozen
but together


is it freeing?
is it weightless?
to know that against the infinite
my measure is nothing?

that i am not really here,
and never was,
and never will be?

i am a dream of the sleeping universe
lost upon awakening
despite a grasping at faint and fading,
less than a spirit
haunting an empty house

if there is nothing,
there is nothing to fear,
and i fear nothing.

in a silent not unpleasant fog

i am in the back seat
i am five
and i am quiet
a listener
while my mind drifts
in a silent not unpleasant fog

i am in the back seat
i am 18
and i am quiet
a wonderer
dreaming of the world
while it races past
fast forward

i am in the back seat
i am 35
and i am quiet
leaning face against window
amazed by snow and my face
melting into the ice
leaving an impression

i am in the back seat
i am 51
and i am quiet
puzzling at changes in my self
and the startling sameness within
as if i have always been here

i am five
i am 18
i am 35
i am 51

i am all these ages
and i am none
all at once
my ghost adds to itself
while my machine runs down
but my small voice is unchanged
quiet in the backseat
in wonder at the passing world
yearning for a reaching branch
that i might climb into the dark and sacred branches
of a living tree
or a dying tree
to become whatever i might be next


i know a light-bringer
who wrestles the dark
that dares to stalk her way,
each and every day
and burns it to oblivion
like oil from the surface of the ocean

i know a bright-bringer
shining inside-out
who bears away the black
as waves take the dead –
a burden she welcomes

i know such a one as this
relentless joy-bringer –
and i am enriched for it