ENDING ON A DIME

11.
turn things on their side to crack the shell
pay homage to thieves to unboil the water
break your own rules to see who you are
unbundle the infant in a field of gypsum and I will mark the place
speak to me in tongues and I will shovel your sidewalk
don't give me what you think what I want to hear
how would I know what I want
there is something much better
listen to yourself change the story with every telling
keep changing the story every time
it's the best thing you can do
it will become what you really need to say
don't be bogged down with the rules
go where you need to go
i will meet you there

12.
I do not want to meet you in the supermarket
i do not want to meet you in an office or a parking lot
i want to meet you in the subway
i want to meet you on an airplane
i want to see you on the ferry
i want to watch you cross the choppy south seas
i want to be the south seas beneath you
i want to be the bow parting the waves before you
i want you to be the waves crashing against me
i don't want to be the captain of the ship
i don't want to be a passenger
i want to be the front of the hull racing through the foam.

13.
When you change like that i glimpse your voyage
when you stay the same i lose who you are
become a stream that never tells the same story twice
let me chase you to encounter the forest
bring me to the edge of the field where the first crocus opened
do not be there when i arrive
let me hear the reeds bend and break
let me listen to the shield crack

2.
Because i was beautiful on the surface
i was not afraid
to stalk the depths of your jungle
bent over and
stumbling towards
the beating heart of what you secretly worship.
because i was beautiful in my soul
i plunged into your blue country
like a jaguar leaping from a high limb
into the sunrise of all that cannot be known.
because beauty's light was hanging in the trees like a song
i sailed to the far end of the island
where the wind is wet with remembrance
that i may singing become the next wave to swell and crash
upon your limestone cliffs
because beauty had taken me as an ally
it was not safety i was seeking
when in blazing fields of grass
i dug a purple grave
for the wild mustang which had reared its head
in the dense fog
because i was seduced by beauty's silver mists
i turned my back to the bricklayers
and entered the reckless seasons
like a cobra
shedding its skin
following
a swarm of gypsy moths through
an ivy canopy
into the uncertain hands
of wounded time

3.
You give me pieces of who I am
and I grasp at them
as they float near the ceiling
and then circle like a family of crows
from treetop to treetop
before all the leaves have fallen in November.
Your words come from a deep place
and swim into the tangled net
I drag behind my ship
that I might catch what relics remain
of who we were becoming
when our eyes first drank liquid gypsum
from the silver unknown
and leaves were still shaking in the beguiling light.

4.
writing poetry is walking
on a narrow trail
at night
feeling with your feet
if you have strayed
from the path
writing poetry is gathering beads
from several boxes
and laying them on the table
one at a time
guided by strange impulse
without touching the wrong one

© Gregg Eisenberg