There is a line of light running

through the sun. Have you contemplated

the bend in your knees

lately?

We are in the

afterautumn, which has

coyote eyes & a frostbitten crinoline

mouth. The cat

scrambles up wooden fences/

clawclatter & thickened fur

& graylined eyes.

I sink

into plaid

recoup the taste of honey

in the back of my mouth/ in the depths

of tea, unstirred

& you mix & mix

with your tongue

searching

for where the sweet

has gone.

I hold the doorframes/

I can't articulate

why it feels like earthquakes.

For heaven's door//

resting your head against it// has it

closed another time// how does one

recoup the taste of honey

in these ugly shaded days// I thought

it was

just behind your lips, but you

close them

in the quietest crescendo

we have seen yet// I weep

in many colors// vermillion

has forgotten its particular shade//

a hip curves

in sorrow//everything feels too cold

these days.

What you might not know about psychics is that they go out to bars, and they get drunk.

They get drunk on the fringes of the room, gather words from edges of surrounding conversations, and then: from within them there comes a rattling.

It is the rattling of unspoken messages, notes, premonitions, ideas, and foresight. It is strong, it is fearsome. Kindness, an intent to help save mankind, smears its mascara into something a touch more desperate and ventures out with an intent voice that speaks with an aim for the souls of strangers.

(This trait of rattling turns many a psychic into recluses, but even those must venture out from time to time)

If you get too close, their shoulders may begin to tremble, like a box with something(vastly alive and curious)waiting within. If you strike up conversation, you have invited an eye from the universe to come look you up and down.

Personally, I enjoy these encounters.

Or I think I do.

The woman is seventy-nine years old, roaring into her eightieth. Her wrinkles make her youthful like a child, as do her dancing hands, as do her missing teeth. She has short hair that hugs her face and curls like a smile.

She takes the role of demanding stranger--what do you do, where do you live, where are you from, when were you born? The shapelessness beneath her lips is set & strong. She says she is Jesus' daughter. She says she saw him at the crucifixion. She asks us what our astrological signs are.

And then she says, "What are you here for?"

And I don't know, or I don't want to say, or the alcohol hasn't kicked in enough. And here is her calling for the night.

She tells me.

Then she staggers off into the cigarette-streaked night air. She pulls a beer bottle from her purse and fills her empty glass with it.

I sit with my new knowledge while the karaoke hosts, who have bowed knees and hunched backs and sterling silver hair, sing Johnny & June together.

The not-so-secret rattling is, I've been a stranger my whole life. People who are drunk in large groups see this fact best.

It was a cathedral// then//

it was a ruin

all the angels & their cracked wings//

you ever seen girl lose

columns of her spine?

I'm here,

dust-knuckled, scraped, slow-bleeding/

curled like a bird in final rest/ bleeding

the kind of red-black that means

eventually it'll stop.

Can't remember

when the passion used to call itself crimson

except under a shade of lace

& afternoon yellowing.

But in the morning the clock strikes

& the day ribbon-grommets herself into

the picture

& we must rise,

her & I,

always ever her & I.

Lonely cathedral,

lost your righteous hips

still warring with

ghosts of an old devil's teeth:

that's as ugly as it ever gets.

& the dust settles,

& the dust settles,

your knuckles are so pink.

A haunting/

was what our eyes did every night/ caught

in the dark & the shadows that play

it is beatle season & they creep in under the doors,

out of the damp/

I find the blur of my face again/

hued tones of youth's restless rage

back when I did not struggle wrapping my teeth around

//

we mute ourselves for the world,

sometimes/

& it is not the world's fault

but who have we become

in those silent spaces of light.

August does not know the word for easy

she blazes hot, feverish/

gets under your skin until you cannot stand it

& still,

where to go

for anything

coded blue?

The monsoons sweep in,

we dance in the rain.

Getting older, you have to choke upon yourself

a little bit. The rain comes & the creek floods & suddenly you--

a river. Raging. Here, the beds where once your hands

were so gentle. Here, the evacuation order

to the residents. Here, the ones that sit on their porches

and watch, wait

anyways. Crack open beers and pour white wine

over ice cubes.

The rain comes & so does the lightning & in the midst of summer--

brushfires. Ash the landscape like a cigarette. Smoke the whole valley.

You pray for your home harder in a fire than in any other

natural disaster,

we think. Smoke plumes turn the sunset pink

in the most sinister way. Two years ago they turned

the sun red on summer solstice. Divinity is always in the clouds.

Divinity is in natural disaster. It's the closest you stand to god,

sometimes.

(not always, please

remember, these

summer months

can just be ugly.)

trying to recapture the

wet mark/ the

red flowers/

the thread

that still loves,

wrapped around the bedside

in a complicated

gold

the metallic temperature of

street lamps

catching

breath

outside

against the black sky

the lit window

dragging its pavement square

like a clenched fist

for weeks,

for months.

a taste of blood / a piece of paper

continual gravel

results in dirty,

broken

feet.

rain is about the tenderest moments.

a kiss & a kiss & a kiss & a kiss

between the sky

& the ground.

water

is a method

of affection.

your objective is to go stand out

in the storm

& don't come back

until your head is soaked in it.

in

kisses

& kisses

& kisses

& kisses

every one

from the sky.

think bright rain

over flowers

in the desert. i brew their

dried sisters in a cup

& taste a fragment

of slumbered sunlight

as the morning mist

departs. we're all moment-catchers,

in our way. sometimes lost

between the earth

& the sky

& our minds. what fresh dream

can we create

today. what spirit

waits on the back porch

to sit beside us,

curved spine & gravel toes

& eyes deeper

for every year that passes.

what will you call upon

to pass these winter months?

Subterranean self/ cigarette rust & precious stones/ seraphim

come in/ carrying

moonstone &

ruby.

The moon's halo gets

brighter/ I want to honor every

cream-colored sentiment

I own. Dirty-glasses/ silvered

rings round

many fingers.

The art comes when you don't think/

you just feel. & scarlet

teaches bone

how to become.

Here is your oracle:

within. Let's build a home

out of earth.

Your freckles

are everywhere you've

jumped in puddles

& the water remembered falling from the sky/ learned

to paint like rain.

Emotion

must fall

in order to nourish

what grows.