ANOTHER ONE

Recycle all our moving

parts, the stars

exploding in the volume

of your winged dreams.

The days operate on rotation; 

spin & the moon circles us.

While I sleep you pet wallabies

or watch the sun pink hills.

Somewhere it’s midnight

& for you I’m typing a storm.

I tie my breaths on a string

& in one length we have a year.

Cupping it I wish to see more of you

before you are pulped

into tomorrow’s newspaper,

or I’m made to hold more water

from Fiji (where I’ve never been).

But tonight I am for you

timeless and present,

a hug should we be

together unmeasured

wrapping & reaching.

TALKING TO MIKE HEPPNER

Hey there, I'm looking through

my window for your story.

The air's gone from navy

to black, withholding

my sleep & your book

lurches from the white

of my typing machine.

My fingers numbed

from zeros & ones,

from building realities

from flat pulp.

You wrote this from nothing,

like you were God & now

we have a lot of papers—

some even unexposed

light-sensitive & thin.

Not at all like that glass, drawing

ideas beyond its surface,

which is how any matter

reaching for me

will be absorbed.

This is how science

justifies sight.  How codes

appear after the blinking

black line, like night:

the preemptive day,

broken. My words

finding exactly

what you mean.