Centurions

let me remind you
how we labored side by side
our sleeves rolled to the elbows;
our forearms white swords in the
afternoon sun

in case you have forgotten
those halcyon days we held our breath
against lethean ether,
clutched our faith to our breastbones
and stumbled righteously into fresh darknesses–

let me remind you as
you stand like Abraham, quenching
daggerwords in the blind fire of
your faith, poised to
sever heartstrings between us–

we were warriors once:
grim-faced, hard-eyed,
battle-angered, yes, but
stitched together, spine to spine with
pure, white strands of love–

let my words paint you back into
that clearing on a battlefield where
we, our wills, our words, our
onenesses were
one nation in-
divisible,
a bright circular meadow
among ruins

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Sinatra

He sings across a great distance,
evenings
when mist rises along deep canyon floors,
when the world is monchromatic blue–
sings to her,
sings to you, as though he
were speaking into telephone lines
falling in graceful arcs down
pine-crowded mountainsides,
His voice blue smoke
on still water–

all of night closes in,
presses closer, its darkness
squeezing his voice into a
corona of sound
11-3-13

Starlight on Shriver’s Creek

Evening music washes over me
sung in minor thirds against
starlit strains on the dry riverbed
of Shriver’s Creek
poetry reaches into me though
I stave off her long white arms
with ritual and songlight,
rolls across me like water and
gathers me into her liquid arms

if only I could accept that I
am stone
the river’s bone
instead of laurel reaching
heavenward in glory

if only–
so much blue music in two small words,
six letters whispered prayerfully
beneath the auditorium sky
11-1-13