.

suitable for philodendron

spiderplant and the snake

each day I am the starling

a bird of city woodland

and steppe adrift boatlike

upon an ancient lake

pilgrimmage unto the mountaintop

let me peek over the ridge

the Earth porcupine makes sphere

I descend into palouse

murmuration of the flock

emergent rhythms of the town

a thousand voices

let me embody

I make my money in the casino

a few dollars lost to drink

we form one

dolorous body

an apparition crepuscular

waters a fir thicket

a house made of hallways

the hare observes me

here without anxiety

movement beyond fluidity

there is continuance

the air is not ephemeral

my breath embarks

upon the wind

sweet viscous medium

before fluent your body

makes discourse with the sea

you are always leaving

yet you never leave

have you made up my bed

only so that I may drown in it

blanket liquid snowmelt

I can not sleep let me ride

with you unto the Columbia

osprey pluck trout

from my every capillary

upon the Rattlesnake

until my eyes make molten

the child by guilt

we know the man

how shall we recognize

the poet

sincerity without innocence

space to walk within

dense forest breadth

by hunger my vision is pure

and vacant

a shaft of light I enter

the cottonwood alone holds

the authority to announce 

at last the renewal of spring

beneath this Moon we are Edenic children

the Earth does not abhor us

but for a little while

and so as a child I attempt 

in my meekness to attune to truth

I find truth demanding tolerance

an empty room in which only

a door is heard opening I stare

at blue paint within a grey bucket

time for only one sensation

I bite the Sun as it enters

born again not twins

but halflings of the whole

a body we have that in common

most importantly we share lips

and eyes and hands and all

clouds having languished

all winter now rise

Sun shines upon pale skin

and dilated eyes

light warms unto Missoula

and at once I realize

all the darkness was defamatory

starlight persisted

I hear a woman in distress

but it is only the revenance

of the sandhill cranes

I was the jilted groom

all winter without my lovely bird

now life has reverted to the fields

unjilted is not the proper term

the other grasping a glass

of Schiava I look sipping out

upon the alleyway sounding of starling

collared dove and house sparrow

indeed perhaps I have awoken

to the Alto Adige

for I drink not the fruit

of Montana but of Tyrole

this Earth has been cracked open 

is that the Clark Fork or the Adige aloft

the odor of meal and yeast

rises from her shirtsleave

as I kiss her wrist

she scents of shortbread

hands which knead tallow

into wheat scrubbed with soap