Another Canvas / new poems 2011

Grope (for WMG)

we rise through the thrashing of our births and wade the mud-rise in our mouths

across the calendars of Winter feral cold, Spring soft cautious sublime, Summer stone lizard heat,

Autumn color forgetting almost every August, and so august we are as we climb through old bones,

propping Faberge dreams on the tips of our intentions and balance our will and our worth all at once

as we stand in the sands that were made in the time we stood dumbfounded by our own existence,

those mountains before us now beneath our feet were never as much obstacle as our uncertain selves