Like the spider emitting hexagonal webs
that gleam rainbows in the morning light.

A grenade dropped through an open window
rolling across the floor before it explodes
shattering our illusions.

Sky Horse tells us without words
to mount,
and carries us to the peaks of light.

There, we see the Sun rise and set.
In the East, pink and gold illumination.
In the West, dull red sinks into blackness.
The dance of night and day.

The rider is either ahead or behind me,
on this tree-lined, earthen avenue
that stretches to the horizon.

The hooves of our horses,
pounding, pounding.

Sometimes a poem starts in my belly,
moves up to my heart and stays awhile –
then on to my throat,
and up and out of my mouth.

In my dream,
I said that the stars
seemed to be holding up the night.
*
*
Pin-pricks of light,
fastening the flowing, velvet sky
to the walls of the Universe.

We each can our own jailor be,
or give a rose
to make us free.
A rose that glows eternally,
A rose that’s named Compassion.

Accidents do happen.
The burning liquid spewing out of
the tipped coffee urn,
scorching the toddler’s body.

Days later,
his life a living hell,
he stands in his crib, rattles the bars,
and raises a scream to the world and to God.
Over and over again.
“Jesus Fucking Christ”
is his howled mantra.

The cup floating in the limitless ocean fills,
then sinks soundlessly.

The tree stretches its leafy crown,
decade by decade,
up to glory.