Indian apples are ripe, dipped in fire
this is the baked memory on the clean counter.
The dragonflies buzz about the birch and fern
unaware of eyes or clouds or blue skies
unaware of tomorrow — how do they learn?

An orange flour blooms upon the summer’s squash,
an inferno of fattened youth to be sautéed.
The salamander gambols out from beneath rotted pine
acquainted with the deep brown humus
acquainted with the standing pool nearby
— and still unknowing, why?

A neither-tadpole-nor-a-frog, belegged and betailed
impales the still of deadened water with his head.
Between the stalks of corn, yards away or less, the snake
glides between, under through and back
glides toward, away then underneath
— is this the relationship between the living and the dead?

An apple tree grows on the hill like a prophecy
of how sweetness falls from heaven
rolls down and down and down to stop with no Earthly concern
and rot away in the midst of the unknowing
to rot away beneath the feet of the uncaring
to rot away with fetid breath and be forgotten too.

a body turns a corner
and the other bodies stay behind
the darkness becomes soft hands
to carry a body down a street
and then all the way home
wherever home may be

of the many ways men part
this common turning seems likeliest
and sad — always sad if considered
too deeply or too closely.

then the body is gone, other bodies are left
to strive for peace of soul and pleasure
— a constant chore founded in the choice
to believe, to always believe, there is something more.

there are those too weak to endure the work
of faith, for those cowardly fools devoted to their cult of truth
there is no belief, there is no choice
there is only inquiry.

What darkness is there around that bend?
What does the darkness hold for men?
Where does the light go? When will it return?

Question after question asked,
until all peace and pleasure  recede
into the everyness of every day — leaving fools
to whither into a forgetfulness that faith may be
and maybe warranted if there is love.

He was crying.

I sat next to this thin stranger with dark hair,  watching him cry face down on the smooth polished bar.

He was crying alone in a room full of strangers more concerned with the soccer match going on on the television. He cried and cried — the steel-soft cry soundless but for his is taut breath and the anguished undulating ache of his soul wracking his body with unquenchable grief.

I reach over and touch his shoulder, “I’m so sorry brother. I”m so so sorry.”

I stand awkwardly, reach over and pull him to my chest, this stranger, this man who is my brother, I have no words. I offer nothing to him but the consolation of touch, and he accepts it because he has no strength to do anything else.

Seconds turn to a minute, and he pulls away, “uh… I… thank you. I’m sorry I lost it.”

“It’s ok.”

“I knew, I don’t know how I knew, but I knew,” he said.

I nodded, “Everything doesn’t always have an explanation.”

“My name’s Che,” he offered his hand.

“Good to meet you,” I shook his hand and said my name.

“Jerry,” I yelled for the bartender, “Che and I need two shots of Hennessy.”

The shots poured in front of us, I picked mine up, “To your brother, may he be at peace until you meet again.”

“For Joe,” Che said simply and pulled back the shot.

the world, she is so large
as I slide her green skin

i search for hands
for feet and know
i have one foot — that’s all

love, is that what this is?
this footless, handless hungry life?

i search for eyes
for hands and i believe
it’s time to go from where I’ve been

love, is that what this is?
this wandering with home upon my back?

i search for home
for safe hard shell
i have no words, i can not tell

the world, she is so large
as I slide her bones

all the world, she burns
hot and wild with desire
for the impending ash

the muskrat chitters
and intones an incantation
— a mystic call for darkness

as the fires burn
the embers rise
the song becomes the stars

all the world, she dances
hot and wild with desire
for the heretofore

the muskrat chitters
and intones an incantation
— a mystic call for rhythm

as the fire burns
the embers rise
the stars become the sea

all the world, she loves
hot and wild with desire
for the holiest of holies

the muskrat chitters
and intones an incantation
— a mystic call for touch

as the fire burns
the embers rise
the sea becomes the soul
the world, she burns
the muskrat rides upon the turtles back

You, there believing the sky is blue
as you burn the flesh away from tender youth.

I will not be the scapegoat for another day
or the sacrifice on the altar to save the sun from sin.

I will not hide in the closet alone in the dark
unaware how large the moment is for fear of being found.

You, there believing the stars are not like you
as you burn brilliantly awash in heavenly truth.

I am no missile aimed, no missile soaring, no missile
striking out across a tiny world in search of a man eating a salad.

I was not warped by the words to come
or the words unspoken that have passed away and can not be.

you there believing I will ensue
as you warp the space and forbid the world run loose.

O the moon, he knows no god
only the vast trajectory of falling
close and then away

mouthing, “O dear god,
forgive me the tide and silver light
that guides every misstep in the night.”

O the moon, he speaks no lucid thought
but twists around the  axis of our foundation
singing silence through the velvet caress of stars

mouthing, “O dear god,
forgive me every crater and the dust
that remembers every footstep.”

O the moon, he asks no prayer
but meditates upon the grayest sea
for the sake of holiness that may not be

A tall thin man with wavy dark hair sits down next to me. “Hey brother, good to meet you.”

“Good to meet you,” I gave him a wan smile and looked back up at the game.

“I had this dream, it was just awful” he started,” last night, you know, the kind of dream that sticks with you.”

I turned to him, “Yeah, you ok now?”

“I don’t know man, maybe?”

“What was the dream?” I asked.

“My father, he died when I was very young, I hardly knew him. but there he was coming out of this church. It was a bit like Saint Ann’s, you know all stones and a nice little yard around it, and as he came out there’s this roaring noise from the organ — not music just a raging wild battle cry type noise.  He walked over to me and my brother standing on the sidewalk, looked at us both a bit sadly, then grabbed my brother’s hand and pulled him toward the cemetery. I’ve been trying to reach my brother, but I been able to talk to him all day and I just have this sick feeling.”

I point at the bartender, he nods, “what can I get you?”

“Another Hennessy,” I shrug toward the guy next to me, “and give this guy another of whatever he’s having”

The thin man glances at me with a blush and lots of gratitude, “You’re a good man. Thanks brother.”

His phone rings a retro-ring that sounds like a real bell, when he answers he says, “yeah, that’s me,” then he turns white and starts to cry.

“My brother’s dead.”

Outside the window,  three house wrens
argue loudly about a branch
a leaf, the sunlight, the blue sky
and which has the right to be
there now — which has the right
to fly away — which has the right
to enjoy this fleeting existence.