here and beyond, bhikku says,
the rejoicing spills out of the mind into the hands
that arch and fumble and fling out .
let me tell you a story without signs
but full of hands
maybe tonight
lit by the last quarter.
.

standing windward
the city underneath
in this high empty lot
practice for
the turtle, the cranes,
the lonely cormorants below.
Lift the pizza boy off his bike and throw him at the moon.
Blink at cats. Nod the  bats along the river,
but use only your hands,  rejoicing.
Don't
say
a
word.

life support
webbed
exterior
(hard driven)
power
in
or
which
is continuing.

it's wind that brought the winged shell
in gibbeted room
his flight night
more than full
up in a cup
to the open door sky
I knew that roach, that wind, the fear,
and inside cleared room for it.

Roaches don't like light.


Shine.

you should encourage yourself, yourself
restrain yourself, yourself
self-protected
live happily


You have four boxes of her - white ash, black earth. You've emptied one box.
The others are her, to hers, out there, incommunicado.
You're protected, split, spilt, done.

One thought ashes would be scattered together. Not so.

I dusted a plastic bag of you over the Seine, sent your last ash in water over yellow flowers in Valencia.

Most of you in your home, though, in my studio between the cats.

That's how death really is.