Air

One day you may touch what's wrong.
I've wrung my dreams out in verse.
Drip drop drip drop drip drop drip.
Grip strip trip—I saw a soul inside a hearse
singing of seasons past, a silent song.
Sat up, sweat pouring, gasping for air.
Sylvia, many a night, I've touched what's wrong
but woke grasping only the silvery air.

I Saw Rumi in my Dream

Asleep in his tomb in Turkey
I woke to Rumi in my dream.
He held a gold glazed pitcher
of rose water and mercy,
singing a soundless song.
Is life what it seems?
I asked him in Farsi.
Will you meet me there
in that field you said was beyond
our ideas of right and wrong?
But Rumi did not respond,
though I saw his eyes tear,
and suddenly here
I turned into the pitcher,
became the infinite container,
meant to serve the thirsty—
I, who parched myself, full of despair,
a desert myself, what could I spare?
But Rumi did not respond,
though I saw his eyes tear.

Longing's Song

I'm the catnip's scent
I'm the purring sound
In pursuit of lust
I'm the feral hound

I'm the rhyming source
I'm its ceaseless caw
In the timbered heart
I'm the pouncing maw

I'm the empty tick
I'm the timeless hell
I'm the drowning flesh
In the wishing well

I'm the grasping want
I'm the craving tongue
In abysmal lull
I'm the longing's song