The Vessel

The old woman sits,
her milky eyes see nought now
but shapes bent out 
by the flames of the fire beside her.

Her bones still strong,
her skin the give away,
made as it is of the sheerest silk
crumpled and dyed in hues of purple and blue.

She can no longer hear the stories
which now fill her belly, her heart:
her mind, though bright, has absorbed
all the cries for attention it can absorb.

So she sits and others gather
While she pours forth her timelessness,
speaking of the love she learned
in a lifetime of heartache and joy.

A strong voice radiates her light, her dark,
valueless and priceless in equal measure.
She is who she is with no apology
and all who hear her rest in that.

In the lav with Charles

I'm spending ten minutes per wee
just to hang out with him,
which is a lot of time
in a person's day.

It's a dirty kind of lust:
one of pleasurable grunts
in hidden dark corners,
subterfuge and coveting.

He either makes the profane sacred
or the sacred profane,
I'm not sure which,
maybe both. But I do know

this dead man reaches
down, into my guts,
dragging my heart with him,
messes around there

makes me moan
oh yes thank you god
for this
and I want more.

Do not give me your heart

I do not want you to give me your heart,
Nor will I give you mine.
The world spins here,
The heart-centre of being,
So you exist in me already,
I in you.

I want you to keep yourself,
As I intend to;
To call yourself home:
No one ever said
You've spread yourself too thick.

We can never know each other
The way we know ourselves
So let's share what that's like:
Tell me the experience of your heart
In this moment and the next,
What makes it laugh and long for,
Weep and sing about.

Oh please God
Do not give your heart
But love it holy,
Wholly for you;
Let mine open and close to you,
As yours will close and open.

Everything lives here:
Let us walk this life alone together,
All one.

Let's share that.