Sutra:  compass games

Outside the terrible night, I revile myself—

No balance in tenderness.  The stars dim obtuse.

It’s the same wound:

My brothers turning to my mother and turning against me.

They don’t mean to, but it can’t be helped.

There can be only one master, one queen.

My heart, placid-sack stuck open, swarmed carcass.

[Is there a suicide queen in the card deck?]

Fervent hum, air webbed with gnats.

Sutra: transport of hormonal landscape

In the dream I liked all stages of the bouquet.

The voice said, “Why do you have those dead flowers in a vase?”

“I like dead,” I said. 

Sutra:  open boat, preparation for travel:

Why do you want to be around such mean people?

I am so small that it feels dangerous;

tropism, fists furling,

waters perpetually lit in the blood fog.

we are one body, smells heavy as suet.

I am both of us moving towards as a single eye, slit open;

wanting what you want

frequency for the deaf, vibratory subrosa.

between us an ocean stills in undertones that approximate tenderness.

dress flesh on the picket because all I can do is need.

Sutra:  unspecified rapture

Last night the world was ours, enormous white flowers

flashed in your eyes, as we held each other

until the past had no sting.

A boat bathed in light carried us away to some greater good.

Now the marquee in dreamtime, I have a lot of catching up to do.

A bowl of ordinary oranges brazen with color.

Sutra:  between places of being

On my way to Bethlehem, I hold a broken cigarette

Trill of waters, to be safe the little one / soul even --

That was strength, not pulling back, containment.

Some inner refuge connected girl–

released new ways of being

Context:  sorrow weighed a fortune.

The way to the temple / through a narrow mountain crag

Surrounded by people I don’t know

I have to turn my body into a blue star to get to the top

Sutra:  of fear and open spaces

$70,000 and a pair of platform tennis shoes

(the family of  origin fire glows religious)

do not a childhood make.

Self suggestion:  I am going home.

Where are you?

At the state line between Miami and Boston.

I am wearing a thimble, talking to a policeman,

trying not to step in a puddle.