Had a dream that I was losing numbers, losing sounds,
losing pieces of carpet and rooms collapsed.
Had a dream that sadness had passed
and there was nothing but clear water.

Had a thought that maybe today
was meant for me. Maybe
walking is the gift, as having the sight to see,
the words to breathe and the will to be.

And another wave has come to claim
the morning, come to take another day --
and what are days, but ways of
remembering.

Is music always going to bring
the memory of you, always
the memory, always

that time sitting at the piano, my fingers
over yours, playing scales
up and down, variations

like names speaking words
A and C, perfect thirds
we crawl upwards

and down, hitting rhythm and tone, gone
slow over cramping notes
that is how it goes, you said,
refrain

from making memories, mundanities
that can't stand in the face of reality, where
music arises purely from the soul
and in nature, no music, no song,
no

Luck

Call it luck, sure, if you want it to be
luck, like a round penny in your shoe;
can't walk far on it, but it gives you
something to count on; something to

think of, like when he said -- It seems more like a curse to me
but call it luck, sure, if you want it to be--

that's LUCK, my friend, like scraping your hand
and growing new skin; guess what? Everything mends
and you can curse the ground for slipping under you
or call it LUCK and count that penny in your shoe.

Kicking up leaves from the bottom of the pond
always makes for muddy water; unsettled
depths and worlds unseen floating across
the surface. We pulled up a boot, an old shoe
split at the sole, that perhaps
walked down this road
many years ago, but was since lost, and bearing
no place of its own, ended up floating
down to the bottom alone.

Ship turned towards sky...

Let all my ships go, let them sail away.
Loosen the bolts, empty the cove,
the docks are at midnight, the ocean a sheen
of new water, soft-frothing, silk-green

beneath moonlight; here comes that old tide
lifting wooden planks, ropes, our sails flung wide
to the wind in a greeting, brief-fleeting, and hushed
as an ocean at midnight; its waters thick-brined

and swirling, with dreams we've charted, now known.
Its tempests familiar, rough waters like home, 
and our damaged sails now dragging behind
we are hopeful, ship turned towards sky.

The heart, slipped through....

Hold it tightly in, grasp the roughness, inhale
to keep poised and aligned, no one needs to know

what slipped through the ribs, unrestrained: your heart,
airtight, packed up, tumbling now and all for what, over brown bread,
over safety nets, over shared chores and shared beds

and something shared that never should've been: your hands,
knitted fast to a blanket, knuckle-white and gripped to last, but

worn things are better worn through; new things are better made
to undo what's been lost: the heart, slipped through
the ribs, unrestrained, and now sewing it anew,

with patches and stitches and rolls of yarn;
needles and safety pins and scraps of fabric, used.