the cloud

the cloud sat over the city for weeks

no larger than a man’s hand

and not even a large man’s hand at that

dogs howled and howled

all night and day     the birds

went silent as if afraid to sing

there was the occasional scratch of lightning

usually one thick skein crabbing its way

between empty road and captive sky

its announcement an itch on the eye

that cloud seemed a judgement

its thick inky presence seeping

into the streets and alleyways and homes

murders of crows the only croaking

sound jabbing the air electric

with potential     the fear     the waiting

they sent planes to test this apparition

that haunted our sleep     this imposition

that cloud invaded our dreams at night

and our conversations during the day

it felt like a judgement staring at us

implacably     like stone     every moment

hovering above us like a black sun

one day it dissipated on its own

somewhat anticlimactically    

the dogs stopped howling

the pigeons cooed     mice scurried    

the roads filled up again with distractions

until we forgot what it was

to face our fear and give it a name

slowly, but (version 2)

surely it pushes up ends this progress wends its way from somewhere deep within the “belly” of the soul’s secret the innermost being ascending into dust

it’s all well and good, but that sort of thing doesn’t go down well in these here parts all you can hear are the parts, that same old same old melody tripping down the memory swells of longing and what if? there is an answer and i asked all the wrong questions until it was all out in the open square of the city every crack a door for roots or stems pushing their little rhizomatic noses into every empty space until they are fully entangled like your locks the right question is a key, that makes me whole or even holy because healing is a miracle that starts small who knows when?

it begins when we stop begging

slowly, but

surely it pushes up

ends this progress

wends its way

from somewhere deep

within the “belly”

of the soul’s secret

the innermost being

ascending into dust

it’s all well and good, but

that sort of thing

doesn’t go down well

in these here parts

all you can hear

are the parts, that

same old same old

melody tripping

down the memory

swells of longing

and what if?

there is an answer

and i asked all

the wrong questions

until it was all

out in the open

square of the city

every crack a door

for roots or stems

pushing their little

rhizomatic noses

into every empty space

until they are fully

entangled

like your locks

the right question

is a key, that

makes me whole

or even holy

because healing

is a miracle

that starts small

who knows when?

it begins

when we stop

begging

quietly

today could be a day of celebration.

or, that day could still be weeks away.

the problem is what to celebrate:

the slow greening of grass and trees,

the incremental  lengthening of days, and

the big, blue expanse of sky;

awakening to each new day,

the softness of skin after a long bath,

the way your lover dances late at night.

there’s a trick i’m learning to do:

to turn my mind to embrace hope,

to whisper words of life over you,

to find some way to speak of destiny

and walk towards the horizon.

birds fill the evening sky, descend

into the weave of branches

as night approaches, the song rises

into the air, rising and falling,

a murmuration of joy, a wildness

poorly and quietly expressed,

gathered to the chest, like a breath

drawn in gently before reading a poem.

to rest

on this side of the day

there are only sighs

the weight of tomorrow

all it holds

promises with soft skin

fear and the stiff spine

how to hold the whisper

of eternity in the hand

which way to turn

as day becomes night

becomes still

becomes full

of breathing