October words
honour, adore, and counting
—
three things expand, you recall
in that old, old, long long line,
three, three, three,
mighty things, gritty things, fallen things
fallen things growing and old become five.
and then gathering five, a gram, an apple, a sacred songstory,
the mother/s nam/ing the stablest thing,
pentactacular abundance beast
and its wildcore animal heart;
you know, the open heart, the hearth,
you know the hearth
where the fire came first and remained before and after the house.
when known means knowing
the tracks and cables and scars and ribs
mapping the many tall waterforest slown
trunks of the tree;
and knowing then that the trunk was standing
still at the feet of the bed,
lion feet, lion bed, treasured trunk, scavenged bench;
and the hunter dagger stays kneading
soft sleeping at me
a spell of sleep at the head.
a spell of sleep and of course weavingdream
the course a flight line going north on the coast
piercing the opiate night,
carving hard wind that is warm,
sounding respect at a treacherous pass,
shaping the edge of the sea,
working breath for movement and
archiving height, noting Chronos
naming this and then and while and again;
and soon, soon, a memory map, remembering flight and circling
a memory map to the future.
I climbed the tree and remembered that night
and found the flight feather
and lay dying beside you
you covered in flowers.
your feet were becoming the earth I remembered
I remembered to kiss them there in the dream;
the dream always of flying, of flight
to the kiss, to the sky, to the north, to the night, to the flesh
to the flesh of the earth.
I call in October with the eighth and the tenth,
an overlapped dwelling, a secret room where blind books are composed
and a ragnote of names make verses there
your lover, the mother, the father, and me
the heartbreaker broken, my sister alien enemy queen
my enemy who is me.
I call in October as she is already leaving her layers behind,
her doffed summer shoes,
softened by salt and bones and sand,
her cast lengths of hair from the spring,
patchy, quiet, slipping through fingers, washed once too many, fallen in bedclothes, cried out
by two demons, one ghost, a visitor, an angel, the lost one
all crowding beside my bed
beside my bed laying frankincense at my feet, and grass baskets.
a shedding, a casting, a twisting staff carving
carving names in the trunk of the tree,
the length and course and winding rings of names that used to be mine
I call in October adoring as she is already leaving her garments behind.
thegoodbadpeople 