sometimes i find trails

drops of blood, strands of hair caught on branches, a bit of ribbon or a green shred of your dress snagged on a rock

or things you've left behind

a broken mirror in which nothing is reflected, a book in which nothing can be written, knives that do not cut, dolls without faces

or hear echoes

bits of song,prayers and whispers, long lists of promises kept and broken, threats and accusations, pleas for mercy, begging for more


and then there are days like today where I find nothing.

there were two of you then, one black and white the other white and black,waiting for a third, blood red from head to toe. Each covered the other's eyes, right hand on left, left hand on right, beyond seeing or caring of the world.

each night I would come to clear away the dead leaves caught in your hair,the bird nests, the cobwebs, the spiders and the snakes. And I would lay there between both of you, the left breathing in as the right breathed out, as I dreamed of that third as your song rang through me, softly and slowly.

Gradualy you faded to a mottled grey, and pulled your hands in close as you turned away from yourself and inward. And each night you sank a bit deeper into the ground, swallowed to the ankles, then the knees, your waist, and shoulders.

Finally the grass closed in over both of you and now I can not remember precisely the spot where you are buried. But I know that the red one knows, she is the heart and crown of all your divided selves, their names and places and dates written in her book.

I prepare myself for the day that I might read from it to you directly instead of from these copies of copies.

I waited for you there, under the eaves, listening to radio left on inside, to the water dripping into the puddles and the streams running down the street.

They try the easy ones first, dog faced spirits and souls of the damned, offers of gold and of silver, threats and promises, but I remained and did not falter.

The processions which came by did not tempt me to join them, the wine dark sea, an ill and sad moon, god's mercy and god's anger, handfulls of dust or wildflowers, none pulled me away, I remained I remained I remained. indifferent to the whores and their offers, to the beggars and their pleas, to the kings and the priests, none could could dissuade me







but still you didn't return.

The snow melted away with each of your footsteps, a river flowing down the street after you. Trees crackled to life, their leaves sprouting riotously, boughs shattering under the strain of their sudden revival, streams of fresh sap pouring down amid the the splinters. When you laughed the ground seethed with flowers bursting through the ice for miles around.

But winter came again more quickly than before, leaving a frozen trail behind you slug style, the wind tearing the leaves from the twisted branches and you marched away into the night never to be seen again.

When spring did come, nothing grew where you walked, black foot prints on withered ground, and in the fall, poisonous mushrooms sprouted in thick clumps every night,filling them. we trampled them every morning when we found them, strange forms and faces in them were unbearable to us, but each night they returned.

This winter we sacrificed a dove at each one on the night of the first snow, the blood soaking through and into the ground as we prayed. We fear what awaits us when the snow melts.

I do not write this. I merely record what I am told.
rumours as I receive them, what facts I manage to gather
sometimes my sources aren't the most reliable I admit, but what one leaves out the others confirm in their silence. Endlessly talking around you, scrupulously avoiding a whisper of your name. Every day without ceasing without ceasing without ceasing. This conspicuous abscence serves as a constant reminder, an implied subject, white letters on a white page that I copy faithfully.

you can come back.

the cat has died
and the hen stopped laying

but the berry briars
the apple trees
the garden and the fields
are still here
under a blanket of snow
and I'll always remember your favorite song.

we can't go there now.

the doors are closed and the stars, muddled. Nothing to do but sleep and dream, sleepwalk and dreamtalk down a thousand forking paths, the branches knitted overhead while we stumble over our own footprints in the dark. The thread you left behind tangles its way along, knotting through the rubble and I wind it as I go, never reaching the end.

I asked you where it came from,
you smiled and said the moon.
I didn't believe you but asked where it lead.
you turned away and pointed to the sea.

each time I told you, I spoke the truth and the truth only. it was for love and love alone that I do these things, though love needs its emblems and modes of recognition,marks to guide the shape of its curves and boundaries, evidence and proof. Drawn in blood or fire, in tears and laughter, through long cold nights, beneath my heel, along red wet paths cut, taken by force or suprise, led along and then left to find your way back home. Neither victory or defeat but still a war.



and so you ran and so I followed, round and round again, the actors changed but the songs the same, the audience sucks in its breath and waits. each time I tell you again, you feign ignorance and I surprise as we walk down these old paths again, hand in mine, retracing.

remember the night that the clouds came down to devour the tops of buildings, slithering through the streets, clockwise and cruciform and the bells could ring forever as we wandered lost. purple grey orange and shifting always.

how many nights ago? even one would put it beyond our reach so why count them.

we met there, or on the way to there, passing through, I leaving and forgetting, you wandering lost in search of and neither recognizing each other. You spoke through an interpreter, I misunderstanding him until I saw your fingers grasp and point, rosaries...icons...a thousand crucifixtions tumbling in their wake. I retraced my steps with wide gestures and rolling eyes, laying them out in front of you to follow. The river waits to swallow them as the sky peers through the cracks and you were gone roaring.

Where I went from there was a mystery then as much as it is now. Where I left and why, twice so. These little gaps in grey waves of days, sometimes you're stranded on the high ground or snagged in the branches for just a bit and then it's down you go for another round. Not like the nights staring at the ceiling becalmed or the gasping when the shouting fails and the lights fly up and away with bubbles trailing after, reflected in the surface until they burst.