if i sayi loveand it was not predictedby an algorithm,is it really loveor an act of resistance.i don’t want to be mapped,charted, measured. i want to say lostand taste that wordlike salt from another ocean.i want to loose myselfagain and again to thissix note feather songthat falls from the treewith late light that poolsamongst root…
they are small streams nowthat cut these deep valleys –rock slip moist mosswhere light can hardly touchbut here shaftbeam drift lightthrough tall trees and airhung with water dropletsand spore,touching bracket or fern leafor foot. small streams nowthat roar with the raintumbling debris,hanging upriver grassin the trees with the floodline. small streams thatspeak gentle overrock shelvesstill…
1it is not likegod could waitwhile wewove clothof hope and flax,a seasons growingto make thewarp and weftof prayer. 2thirteen ravensflew the sky,i don’t rememberwhy i counted. 3there was no predictingthe turning of the wheelyet i held the lucky numbersticky in church fair handwaving it wildlywaist high to the crowdwaiting to claim my prize. 4i cut…