Is a part of the snow lining the driveway

and the small bare twisting of the

muscle in my chest.

Is the curious wondering while I was in the shower this morning:

How a man could move people when he could no longer be moved

himself.

Is the understanding that he can be moved,

is drowning in movement most of his life.

 

Is the long dull horizon flowing into the west

punctured by the busted and

worn ironwood branches.

Is the leaking, the crying, the reaching.

Is a transfusion, you know.

 

Watching the curious path of life dribbling out of me as I travel

with the breathing, the movement

Even with the slow movements that are supposed to be healing.

Knowing the dribbling of life

unstoppable dripping, oozing, flowing

fucking

waterfall

of incident and time

rushing me forward without a pause

unable to stand except for small moments of contemplation and seizure

 

(Out of time,

the seizure taking you out of time and dropping you in strange sweet places where you have been, where you will be. Feeling the shift in your belly, crawling up the back of your spine, turning your body inside out: wearing the meat red, the bone white on the outside)

 

I have to hope.

I have impaled myself on a stake of poetry

on a stake of someone else,

and I lie cooling in the evening

listening to the warm fluid dripping out

of me

seeping into you.