The Sun Will Sit and Cry

The sun will sit and cry and tell
me of a thousand yellow griefs,
how the slim-fingered sky meets
and breaks, plays blue chords
of sweet despair locked in fading
sighs and green-etched currents
beneath our greater deaths.

The sun will sit and cry and show
me how to weep as drizzled moss
below purple-hearted oaks, grey arms
of what we see in ourselves that
glitters as stars upon shadows
of timed souls, our wider eyes cutting
their teeth, scrawling upon bare bone.

Folded Paper and Teal Water

What is it you dream of when your
poor eyes are on thin gray trees
that sail the palms of
diapason November nights

as small but infinite deaths
descending the flat end of the word?
Have they ever choked upon skull and
bone shadows feigning regress?

I have been told that there is a dance
long and sweet, hollow with blues
and greens, folded paper
vibrations that forever weep

with smiles and laughing hazel eyes.
Do you know of it? There are dead
auburn leaves rotting on frosted
ground above the root cellar,

above dusty jars of pickles and pears
resting on musty shelves, sharing space
with small brown spiders and comic
books from the seventies.

What is it you will say to me when
we meet again? Will your words
be filled with tired blood and
dangling mistakes?

The old brass chimes still hang from the
back porch, they are voices under
teal water, their eyeing sound passing
by me as imperfect tones of you.