has only good news for my body
and for my mind, she warms them
and she becalms them unlike her
greek namesake who left her
listeners terrified and tense
ah the onomastic turnaround
took twenty centuries to turn
the older story on its head
which explains ex-lingua why
my modern body feels comfort
in the new diachronic goddess

Algae that
they soften,
restlessness
of loneliness and
agglomerations

of rivers
and carnations
in discomfort
of his entourage.

Delves
the piercing channel
from the intersection.

Would pass
the rites,
the vintage screen
and the bow of the scream
to pause
this transit
from a distance.

They would imaginate
hallucinations
that unite
ancestral backgrounds
of the lordships
when passers-by
they walked long
as emissaries.

Then
in the face of the
torch
they would sweat
the symphonies,
if the skull
she exists as a muse.

Entity
inside
enemies
‘war machines’,
flooding with opprobrium

absent as
of movement
who rides
the grotto
submerged
until
the increase.

Fall
in noise
and masks,
the adversaries.

They’d smile
of Nereids
their vessels,

basins
& Lights
that sound
the sunset,
marble
what means
your death,

and the apparatus laughs
like nothing
of his
footprint.

I can’t control
the vanishing
       of bees

       but I can control
the honey I swallow
to soothe
       the vocal cords

I can’t control boys
       bully-tumbling
another boy

in the classroom
       like they’re
in a mosh pit

but I can remember
       rolling on hills
with boys being the bully

I can’t change my major
from drama to global peace

but I can write
similes of serenity

& poetic sermons
in temples
of matrimonial fanfare

I know the bombs, the explosives,
and Molotovs are overhead

and I can’t control 
       the lottery, the multiverses,
and tomorrow’s astrology

but whatever tarot card I pick
       or whatever
   gets thrown
       at my face: 

Hangman
       or Fallen Towers

I can express
my weathering emotions

to sing while hoarse
to control air placement
to find the chakra

the right amount of air
to pass through my throat

oh sing with me
the octave between

blade & nectar
rubble & clouds 
ash & mountain

As the day turned to dusk, we sensed we could feel
the people we’d loved and lost calling
like a breeze that suggests itself but never
actually awakens the trees. She told me
again about the moment she decided to let
our first child go so she could go on
living herself, and I remembered
how once, as a young man, I’d walked by myself
for a day, until I was lost and came
to a boulder and a creek. She remembered yearning
to comfort our baby after we’d scattered
her ashes, and I remembered that the sun
had been warm; the sound of the creek had filled me
with something as different from thought or song
as a dream. She said she still dreamed of Audrey,
our lost child. And then I told her again
that when dusk fell, a clutch of black birds landed.
Even when I stood up and gestured, there
in that unfamiliar landscape, they refused to fly away.
I think they were hungry. But I had nowhere else to go,
so I lay down under stars so sharp
in that darkness they hurt my eyes, even
when my eyes were closed. All night those black birds
stood watching, waiting for something. Like angels,
she said then and laughed, though I don’t think she was joking.