talk about his star
house —
“ the seed s of someway
forward
with palpable visions
of
/what could be/ ”
i tug my bare feet into the cold grass
as he speaks ;
a mother stands and nurses her baby
who wears a strawberry-knit hat ;
her brown hair is braided
down her back .
into the darkness
of our
moonside audience,
crowns anoint
the poet’s visions
illuminated on the stage as he is,
a rectangular glow
in the forest,
how it all began
around a fire
on a mountainside
and will go on
that way .
other things that have begun
are
me
exploding ;
orange sun through
empty frame ;
lover jumping backward
off the rock out at sea ;
wet dark hair on forehead
his hand
behind my neck ;
whisper on ear ;
the two of us
climbing up the ladder
toppling over
each other
in a star tangle
all to grace the toasted
dandelion - ness
of naked
ness
& later,
lunging to higher rocks
as waves crash
back over
our harvest ,
the crackling twist as my salty hand
tugs
the blue black shell
of a
California mussel .
breaking byssal threads ,
sharp barnacles
scrape my skin .
the thin threads branch out and tie the mussel
to rock ; to other shells
when byssal thread is formed
by a mussel ,
they secrete it in liquid form first
and then it solidifies
when exposed to salt
water —
a network of tiny anchors
wound in the swell
of movement —
like the poet’s collection of stars ,
an anemone is another explosion .
another one
is the child ,
who before the performance,
climbed onto the stage with their friend
pulling down the microphone
to their face
and announced
to the mountainside :
“this
is
my fierce companion
and we
are here
to give you
a beautiful show ! ”
she has her own star house ,
a moon , reflecting starlight ,
pulls oceans into tides
what could be
is always a dance
between
probability and starlight .
a poet writes their biography
between constellations ;
this one
is a circular wooden house
full of words .
i am standing in the center ,
sheets
of paper hanging delicate around me
each arrangement
undeniably
precious
and
preposterous
and earnest
and
agile
the door
to a
star house
is attention ,
boisterous and quiet ;
his hands carefully fastening
a turkey feather to an arrow ;
the arrow ,
carrying a whisping thread of
light ,
line s
cast between
stars
and seeds ,
beginning
as all things do ,
around a fire
on
a
mountainside .