"Keys" or "Our Names, Ourselves"

My place in things was never manifest
when it was so simple to see how the others fit,
Their identity to summarize
and their self to categorize.
It's much more difficult for me.

I could define them:
by their names
and by their impression in me, like damp sand.
But I measured me as a little of too many things, 
and so overall too much of nothing.

I asked an old friend about
what an empty vessel brings
and she said
first that there are kinds,
and how wonderful to be able to hold so much 
of so much worth.
"You have the potential to be remade by what you contain"
she said.
"It's worse when we fill ourselves too quickly."

But the juxtaposition isn't whole.
Next to what?
Is my place then and now, just itself,
or was there a better version?
Has this been my submission against the key?

Of course, there is no key.
Or I was the key for the others,
But there was no key for me.

Today's Weather

The sun is shining,
and the pavement is all dry. 
The desert forgets
the rain and snow like a dream. 
He wakes up and rubs
the sand back into his eyes.

We Need You To Turn On The Sun

We need you to turn on the sun, or
we'll never wake to wake
the starlings to take
the story-devourer home.

We need her to tell, just once, of
the fable she met, she meant
to consume, but went
and sucked out her bones.

Though I need to believe, oh
that tale like sky bombs,
like star stomps, is not
anything but what we've sown.

So wake up (wake up)
     We need you to turn on the sun.

Soothwoman Brambeldra

Well it was some Thursday afternoon
in a January minus mercy.
I was coasting down Silver
when the Soothwoman walked in my way.

Well I blew on my scrapes,
and she stared
with white eyes below that babushka scarf
wrapped 'round her head.

"Hey, I'm sorry," I started and then stopped.
She slipped me a scrap of fabric,
and it read:

"Boy, give these words a song
along with my name.
-Brambeldra"

Well I looked up and she was disappeared.
Stuffed that scrap in my satchel and began to sing,
a little stumblingly, a little uncertainly:

"Boy, give these words a song
along with my name.
-Brambeldra"

Oh, I don't know who you are,
Soothwoman Brambeldra,
but here's a song for you to haunt.

Birds' Nest

How much longer until we get to the
place where the clouds meet the mountain?
Where it's damp and cool, but there's
     fuel to be found,
and the sparrowhawks will watch our fire?

All the days gone going through the desert
are wearing out my inspiration.
The mountains stays stuck on the horizon,
     the same shady silhouette.
The faraway stars wind over the sand.

And if we get there,
     will it be any better?
Are the skies only the sky,
     and the days tired reluctance?

Well, I built a fort right here,
so let's call this place our home..
..at least for now -
     - just 'til I catch my breath
again.

I ground the stones with pestle,
used the chalk to paint paper cranes
and clay waterbirds all across the walls.
We could be lovers in this birds' nest.

Little Darling

Little Darling wants a song
     about the city on fire,
and how the pelicans brought
     the seawater in their beaks
while the syrup smoke brought
     the saltwater to their eyes
and their hollow feather bones
     got lost along with everything else.

Little Darling wants the one
     about the sad seraphim,
when the soil devoured the sky,
     and he went blind trying to shine.
He'd crash into skyscrapers
     while the dust moved behind, winding
its teeth into the scared little homes
     which got sawed raw, along with everything else.


It makes my voice unsteady,
     decorating the darkness that peers out at me
     through her heavy asymmetry.

But this love is severe,
     and at least I know the ways with her
     (feeling the walls and counting my steps)


What is offered by the sunlight, anyway?
     I can't remember.