staring out of gray windows
on gray Flemmish November days
mythic, wrestling playfully, leaping-for-life,
bridging the divide between the present and the yearned-for
ash-ridden, cautious animal ready to flee,
folded wings dreaming, raw and tender like uncooked steak,
love-whispers drifting in & out like winter mist over barren field
something pure in me
jumps through that window
but full of passion and
into that place and way of being
that I daydream of, nightdream of
something careful in me
stares through that window
takes count of all the wounds
counts the days, considers
counts the coins, considers
weighs the dispassionate commitments, considers
points at all the memories
of the graceless flailing about
the inner committee of careful consideration presents!
its analysis report
"there are a thousand and one reasons
to stay here and sweep the floor
in the house of fading light"
among these still ashes
is there a young phoenix
slowly dreaming itself
is a thin crack
in a thick brick wall of regret
enough for Dionysus to slip inside
and ring the big bells?
is it ever too late to live
the life we're meant for?
and can I hear and sense;
this meant-for-ness I behold
is it shallowly rooted
in my own hungry belly?
or is it deeply rooted in
the world-belly of she-on-whom-I-stand?
or are they
one unified belly