i. New Work

On high, where the mountains snowy knuckles
 & the roads deep veins, the pressure lessens
& a hope elevates.

Chatter on the plane is what
 some reck breathing for. If I disagree,
then nothing for it but to make
 like those veins & new rush heart & mind.

******

ii. And Again

You were come new, & I had my gift
 ready for you. But something, &
then something else. That smile,
 something, something else. I chased,
again, a little, a little more. That smile,
 something. It was only a dream,
that smile, you were come new, &
 I had my gift for you. Something I kept.

******

iii. Myths Breathe—

These glaring beasts of night, still,
 the softest touch in my breathing,
the hustles with new sun. I'll start
 explaining myself by simple numbers
when any of you can nod & smile &
 finally account for the remain.

******

iv. Spring Thaw

Winter dawns in that strange youth,
 tossing newspapers at locked suburban
doors, talking myself through inner worlds
 finer than the day to come. A pretty girl,
a pen in hand, even the simple gesture
 of a smile & a handshake. Big, simple,
inner worlds I did not yet know how
 to conjure. I’d come home, fingers & limbs
numb, & the sharp yips of the thaw.
 Thaws hurt, then & now, & bigger
inner worlds still call to be made.

******

v. Sobornost [After Herzog]

In his cage, he remembers. The scent of unknown
 flowers, chemicals really, the wind from
the window he’d quickly come through. Two
 quick breaths, then his, the gentleness
he crushed, but then let go a little. Maybe
 it was God’s urge, he ignored the chemicals.

In her room she smokes. There is music
 on the radio, too soft for lyrics, as she likes.
She sees stars through the ceiling, always
 has since, even more now. She’s learned
new ways to laugh too, less personal,
 more forgiving for the many hands striking
empty air, & again, & again, & somehow yet
 call this a life.

******

vi. Render

New work seems best to root from
 the rest, the stars themselves tools
to remind of that banking melody,
 day the old enemy for reasons too
familiar to sum, night the welcoming
 thighs, the encouraging beat, smiling
hurried breath, & so on. And yet.
 And yet. There is that older than
my paths & songs, roots dangling for
 a hold. There are liners in those skies
tonight, tomorrow, beckoning for a ride,
 maybe just for a song. There’s sexy
glare in the gratings in the ground,
 & three possibles for any smart denial.

New work is bedded through each new
 hour, & a willing to still feel leaning
way over the edge, a willing, a hunger,
 a slave to it maybe, to what
great notes can be found in that
 next moment of balance between
possible fall, & wild ascent.

******

vii. Just Play Through— [After Burke]

If I can see also ligaments & light
 where I now see just tits & ass,
If I can feel the man’s love of his
 personal savior as much as I love
  my pen & a tree to write near,
If I can embrace to hold my heart’s
 urging truth that the vastness of any soul
  is on the far side of coin & office,
If I can act with humor, with doubt,
 with hope, keeping beat & breath,
If I can learn better to give it &
 take it, & accept the brutalest beauties
  of this world,
Perhaps I can live long & come to my end
 with an easy smile like to your own.

******

viii. Temple of Dreams

Found in a clearing shaped like a temple
 in full moonlight, potent without
flesh nor bones, a place, a portal,
 a tool, a salve, recked ancient by men
yet dreams do not bide by miles or hours.

I wonder over this as I marvel too
 that the Universe on luckier nights
seems most like sugar sprayed wildly
 across a darkling canvas. At my best,
I think there’s space enough for metaphor,
 science, for every slight & unsure passage through.

******

ix. That Slender Myth

Tonight, again, I know nothing.
 I am nobody. Singing to manifest,
crawling the dust. Recking the web.
 Praying the hours hit the same vein
that preacher does tonight, spittle
 & fists, sucking the moving sidewalk’s

attention to his gesture & word,
 the word, next word, he’ll hustle
another to his unhappy explanation
 by night’s end, loose eyes from
that slight skirt, those misshapen green
 leaves, irrelevant stars above,

yes. “Only suffering defines this human
 dimension. Suffering & submission &
the relief of letting another direct
 your path hereon.” I know nothing.
I am nobody.  I cannot say you
 are wrong yet I will not sing your song.
What lights my days staggers me with
 wild, uncertain music, & what caterwauls
my dreams sexes my mind even better
 with the possibles here & hereon.

******

x. From a Dream

And again I’m in the classroom
And again that old bookstore job
And again this courtyard, this black pen,

Which are dreams, which to keep?

And the few meals remembered from years
And the click-clicking chess-clocks
And the faces that remain unknown

What else is passing by too?

And again it’s springtime, mercy’s cool air
And again I watch the homeless man prowl
And again, & still, I know nothing
 but still add to the noise

I’d walk home tonight, from this courtyard,
 with each & every one of you, if you
could breach my dreams at last, & land inside my skin.

******

xi. Two Men

There are only two men.
 One sells the fire. One blazes.
Will you purchase your days with one
 or learn how the other burns?

******

xii. The Red Bag

When the glaring lights have left
When the music has slowed to smoke
Where there is sniff of good blood & then no more
When touch brittles maybe to break
When best taste is old & cold, hurts

The red bag, doorway, back to dreams
The red bag, the path, come
The red bag, come, trust, come here.

******

xiii. Tomorrow’s News

When the ships overhead descend,
 if they were to slave, use the world
as crops, as men do now, but badly,
 would it take no more than a flash
of glowing wings, a hard bark about
 judgment & punishment, to subdue
resistance & fear to submission? Who
 would challenge God’s arrived minions
but some of the children, a handful of the freaks,
 & a scattering too few to whelm
the millions well-raised for the lash
 & unexplained condemn from the skies?

******

xiv. Emandia

I fell asleep, sad again, & looking far
 into the darkness I could see the cankerous
shaft in me, its veins twisting maybe deep
 as blood, oh yes, could see how it bore
through, then, the most lost, secret
 sweet of thens, barely a seed with limbs,
unaware my unspent life, to now,
 taking in all it could, a blind, unhappy,
frenzied mortal feeding, consuming
 & yet not all, for there was something else,
an opposite, what?

Another shaft, of music, culminating music,
 a shaft of forest breezes, ocean waves,
leaves, curling inward, open hands, even
 closed ones, the coming harmonies of
mutual gain & get, putting on another’s
 dream to understand, the pink & purple
& green colors of want, & I wished, seeing
 both plain now, to near the one & dismiss
the other. But I woke this morning
 with both still. Knowledge of the canker
does not free, nor does the music diminish.

Each feeds me still, of each other, &
 the play is mine to let the canker
thrive or follow, yes, I am nobody,
 yes, I am nothing, yes, I still sing.
Become again, anew, the wild violet shaft
 crying, thrusting inexorably into the
twining grasp of this great gaping universe.

******

xv. Claude Monet

I wish I knew you, Claude Monet,
 as your teachers did, & as you
knew your colors. How many cities knew
 you too, as you painted their churches & canals,
Claude Monet, I wish I knew you as a friend,
 to sit & watch the day with,
know your rustling breath, study your
 beautiful hands. I wish I knew you,
Claude Monet, as your dreams which recurred,
 as the canvasses you stretched, your paints,
your brushes. I wish I’d been a wheatstack
 or a water lily you studied for hours to figure,
to find where eye & colors & the movement
 of hand might coalesce now, & forever.
I wish I had known you, Claude Monet,
 as something you loved enough to keep.

******

xvi. Carry Me Back

Later there was a film about her,
 the dead girl traveling north where
all comes from, it had gotten easier
 since she’d been dead, the pressures
were fewer from body & clan, & the scene
 that really convinced me was when
she’d made it to the shore & it’s snowing,
 big chunks of snow, like cottage cheese
or something, & she begins to disassemble
 herself to understand, at first
the pleasure of watching her vague
 garments reveal a slender torso,
pleasing breasts, soft ass, even shaved pussy,
 but then she uncouples them from
herself, they had come later after all,
 & the skin softer as she news & undoes,
her blood unremembering its hungers & imperatives,
 oh yes, & the glisten of early songs,
first songs, it comes apart easier around her,
 as the cottage cheese snow diminishes,
& she is left just with the wish
 to understand before she even knows why.

******

xvii. Atop Mt. Cloudy Day

You reach the top or end of
 something & all there is
is to look down or back.

******

xviii. After a Time
[F.B., “Hot Air Ballooning Off Normandy,” oil on plywood, 20th cent.]

When you start losing your legs,
 the world seems more ferociously moving,
& you find yourself looking up,
 more & more, for an offer of wide wings,
a soft ride in a striped air balloon, or
 maybe that long swim to the bottom
finally coming due.

******

xix. Manneport near Etratat

The plaque to Monet’s paintings tells of
 this great rocky gate but another view
says that it is a leg taking a long step into
 the sea, toward something new, greet
the far landless depths, learn some things,
 remember others, great rocks dream too,
& the sea will enjoy the visit, tales from
 new company, yes, I think it’s time
everybody saw this too & accepted tis
 a journey begun, more steps to come,
& at the stateliest of gaits.

******

xx. Homer’s “Weather Beaten,” 1894

“For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”
—Wendell Berry, “The Peace of Wild Things,” 1969.

I wish to crash with your waves,
 not against them, not ignore them
for not being man-shaped or talking like men.
 I wish to uncouple from my simple ideas
of dawn & dusk, as though light disappears
 entirely, feel like the sky my colors changing,
wish to disintegrate like driftwood,
 without woe or metaphor, & eventually
spread what I hark out to every point
 of the globe, wet & dry, feel every pulse,
every breathing, now a fiber knowing
 its weaving, no longer harried or hanging on
because I know everything needs me too
 & is seeking to keep me my place.

******

xxi. The Tangled Gate [Sketch #1]

Remember some things. This is the lost purpose
 or forgotten, obscured, of the tangled gate.
You will enter as a group, pretty dancers
 offered as a king’s sacrifice, but I know
what you will find. Each of you will arrive
 but alone, but only by heeding me in this.
Through the tangled gate, neither left nor right,
 on & on & on, now into the great mouth,
the great beastly mouth. On in, one by one,
 heed me in this. On in.

******

I watch you roaming the tangled gate,
 & you try to understand, where were
the dance steps I taught you? Which color
 thread is the clue to which path?
You sniff & pause, & press your hands &
 breath to the walls, those of clay &
other vines. You wish to know, to feel
 your blood walk calmly the gate as though
through the stars themselves. Heart’s
 deepest feeling the map to all
the worlds of creation. I watch you.
 You sing, you talk softly. You move slowly,
you run, you stop. Nothing orchestrates
 you, Ariadne, not you nor the stars themselves.
I watch you, note by note, glance, glare,
 green leaves blow places you don’t know
within, where lead & know & how let off,
 & the gate untangles past all ceasings of cease.

******

You wonder who let the elixir in,
 & you look around for a face or
office of intent, look back, far back,
 now far on, beyond your station,
the stars in your night skies.

You wonder who let the elixir in,
 & marvel a little at how time & space,
how foolish, how funny, now let it
 some more, look far, look back,
beyond your station, your roots, your dreams.

You wonder who let the elixir in,
  as though the plan, its masters,
their secret book, its language
 to master & teach, stare harder into
the fire, grow blinder, listen till you see.

You wonder who let the elixir in
 as you wonder on want & what will delight
perpetually a moment’s sugared laughing,
 what will calm the many tongues & their guns,
oh tell how, sing why, by the beg, by the pray,
 you wonder who let the elixir in when
look, your hand is on the tap & see it flow.

******

xxiv. The Tangled Gate [Sketch #4]

We sit together, you & I, & at first
 our breathing distrusts, because
this room isn’t big enough & it has
 no windows. But our hearts are listening
too, looking for the music even as we
 still tangle in tongues. They beat,
there is the beginnings of music,
 there is silence, how music continues.

We sit together, you & I, & this is
 ten thousand years ago & this is tonight
& this is when the earth has blown all to light.
 This room isn’t big enough but here
we are & the music between us has begun.
 You call me ugly & I return yours with
a nod, & we both start laughing.
 This is how I remember those days best.

We sit together, you & I, & you are
 gone some years now, & your laughter
remains in my mind. And this room still isn’t
 big but I can see now the possibilities
of windows. Make them with fists,
 or maybe open hands. Every day’s deciding.

******

The Tangled Gate

She Returns to the Island

Remember some things. It’s what put me
 in this small boat on this great
blood-remembering sea in this melancholic
 month of the year, near too cold to sail.
I’ve left the Pensionne as though not to return,
 but look at that blue bag. That’s all.

Remember some things. And what choice?
 You neared me in my dreams, nearer than
any man had, at least meaningfully.
 You neared, you lured, you made off.
“The Tangled Gate. Find me through the
 Tangled Gate. Will you choose? Will you?”

It is hard sailing to get to the Island.
 This boat won’t get me there, I can’t make
my friend risk his livelihood. I’ll swim,
 despite his looks, his friend’s wish
to protect me somehow. The Pensionne had
 recovered him too. But I am prepared.

I’ll swim. I haven’t in years, in the sea,
 but it’s like I’m more fish than girl.
My bag is sealed, hauls from my waist,
 I wave a thank you at him in mid-flight
to the water. These blood-remembering
 waters took too much from me to ask more.

So I thought. Architect, I thought you &
 your prick-addled son both swallowed in
its deep. I thought I lost you to worse
 than your uncertainty, your willingness
to take me only with your eyes. No,
 it seems. You survived, you live, so say my dreams.

The shore is rocky, no beach where I half-
 collapse breathless. The sea lets me leave
but slow, as though something more,
 something else. The grey-etched skies, too,
prod me restless, go. Return. Remember some things,
 something’s ticking harder, little to do with time.

******

She Remembers the Queen

Working my way along the rocks
 I remember the Queen, my father’s
jealous wife, with her herbs for fidelity
 & her witchly cult’s screeching songs on
full moon nights. Was this sparkling foamy
 beach where my own path began to begin?

The story was foolish but nobody would say
 otherwise. The King & his reckless plays with
the Eternals, gamblings with one & another
 for bits of power. Agrees to slay the magical
white bull in tribute, then switches out
 another. Fool an eternal? Some don’t learn.

Fool an eternal? Feel an enraged fist. Now
 see the mesmered Queen sneaking off by night,
rouged & primped, a servant carrying her
 sex box. I followed by shadow, I watched,
the crashing waters, the bull’s wet roar,
 the beguiled woman’s ass fit high for cracking.

Now gorged with her punishment, now
 unseen for weeks, she called me to her
rooms, she touched my hair, my new breasts,
 lied & called me beloved daughter.
I waited at the very edge of her bed, ticking,
 naming & counting constellations in my mind.

“Don’t lead with your heart, child,
 it will betray you,” she growled.
“How did you cause this? What was your
 wrong?” She smiled, a woman handsome
like a man. “When they near you, child,
 hooked by your luring blood, do what I didn’t.”

Silence. Ticking. Counting. “Sniff.” “Sniff?”
 Silence again. Breathing more complex than
it ought. I should have felt something, or
 at least these years later. I remember the advice,
& think only the stupid woman learned one thing to say.
 I remember her dragging her sex box home before light.

******

She Visits the Dancing Grounds

Eventually to climb, the Castle on its tall hill,
 my father the King & his spy-glass to the seas,
his insomniac patrols in the weaker hours of the night.
 He’d say, when I was small, “They’re all out there.”
Always looking high, in love with night’s shiny stones,
 the musical patterns of gulls in flight, sleepless too, I’d ask: “Who?”

“Where we come from, the ones who would take all
 this. Our heritage & home.” I looked hard toward
the star-speckled horizon, seeing the dark waves only
 in my mind. Answered his fears with my only powers,
touch & kiss & the breath of few words. Embraced,
 sighing, he’d say: “There are other weapons, stranger strengths.”

I come now to what he built me later, a remain
 of those years. He knew I moved quick like
my white bunny, & light like my many butterflies,
 & said I must dance. Showed me books with patterns
he’d kept as he kept little else. Stranger strengths.
 We’d study. I’d imitate. He shook his head. I’d try again.

The grounds for the dance’d be raked every evening,
 the stones set in place. I’d come before eating.
Some water, a gown, but me nude. Alone, all quiet,
 I’d let the waking dream come, move my feet,
shift my body to sing its pictures & noise.
 Only companion the morning’s movement into light.

The rocks would stray from my feet, the raked
 sands scatter. By when the others joined,
the grounds would compose my song & message.
 They would smile, pretty & clothed, I would let them.
Not my friends, just other pretty trinkets of the court.
 My father the King liked the contrast. Had his choice.

Only one understood, knew as we did.
 Friend sister rival, she smiled & danced for noone.
You built these grounds, now savaged by kind time
 & human neglect, & let me lure you a true love
by the collision of the magic in my dawn’s
 erupted dream & the girl who knew no patterns in the stones.

******

She Visits the Castle

When last I saw you, brother, you were in
 this doorway, on your way to the games,
convinced in that sweet, soft, thorough way
 of yours that you’d win. The pretty trinkets
of the court admired your shoulders & thighs.
 I worried as always about your limp.

It happened when you were young & sick,
 & I don’t know how, but thereafter you grew
quickly, so graceful, & slightly off. You treated me
 tender, indulged me brush your hair, sometimes
carry your bag to the sports fields. You excelled.
 The limp came & went, an obsession of some seasons.

You mentioned my dreams that last time
 all of us gathered here. The Queen tightly
crated in her several best colors, new haughty scraps.
 The King my father with the sweet demon’s glint
in his eyes, her spread sleeping in a private chamber.
 Even the Architect, who saw the limp too.

“Will you tell them all goodbye for me?”
 you whispered as we embraced. No louder
than a breathy thought. I nodded. I knew
 I wouldn’t see you again by daylight, though
I wondered about other hours. It was the last time
 we all stood together. You sprinted alone to the boats.

The Castle is returning to field, perhaps even
 forest one day, the one which covered most of
this Island long ago. Many stones fallen,
 rooms collapsed, I climb stairs half-gone
& think: this is truer life than all those
 anniversaries of the Crown & its stolen secrets.

Finally, to my room, at least the chamber
 that held it. There’s little of me here,
even less than ago. I lay out my bed roll,
 my brush, my totems, my knife. I’ll sleep,
finally, but likely not dream. The place in the wall,
 its tunnels, its caves, won’t open again, no matter my tears.

******

She Passes by The Tangled Gate

A few steps at dawn on the dancing grounds, just a few
 for now, to see how it feels. Strange is a meager word.
My blue bag is waiting, & the next place to see.
 Places, really. What remains of the Tangled Gate
now, the one in my sweetest of childly dreams, &
 the one you, Architect, would not let me pass.

Find you in there? Time’s hand has been no less kind,
 human neglect again her partner. Just a few steps in,
the great Fountain that greets all, insists a drink,
 looks half-swiped down by the years. Not just a drink
but a decision: left or right? A crux to distinct
 paths, each a phantom hand, reaching, encouraging.

And yet the Gate itself is not fallen, little rusted,
 a stubborn collaborator in the matter of its passage.
And its small legend still clear, a lily’s glow:
 ”For those lost.” I read it, & read it again,
as though my pout or my wink or what mind
 I’ve gathered to me could loose its first riddle.

For those lost. Someone read those words
 to me the first time I saw them. In my chamber
through the hole in the wall in my dreams,
 yes, it was strange. Yes, I was small. Yes,
it was real like important & beautiful things
 in this world are real. Yes, this belief wears
& wearies in my mind. Yes, it’s why I’ve returned.

And yes, to find you through the Tangled Gate,
 Architect. For minutes & then more of them
I stand here stupid with griefs, where
 I come from, far from home. I try to remember,
claw into my heart for its old wounds & stars.
 The cold sky bends me lower, & I let. I release.

I remember one thing, small, but a place
 to put my steps. Deep in the Tangled Gate,
we faced a cave, a featureless maw,
 the Beast just two more roars & a crash
away. My friend smiled, took my hand, said to me:
 ”No way out but through,” & we went. We went.

******

She See the Tower, Again Trebles in Time

Was the King my father who first brought me
 here, to meet the Architect, see his chambers.
I felt tree, I saw Tower, I dreamed star craft.
 Are there still rooms along those impossible stairs?
Are the faces in the stones still clear, some crying out
 yet some smiling? Some not men at all.

They set me on a stool before a spyglass too heavy
 for me to move. That day I saw what I’d see
again in dreams, the innards of the Tangled Gate,
 its branching roots, its shadowed-out mysteries.
And movement in there? I looked & looked,
 not yet knowing what thing this was.

A noise behind me in these half-lit chambers,
 I turn. A branch pokes up through the roof,
behold a patch of speeding stars. I open my mouth
 but another cries out. The King my father
is angry, waving off the Architect & his plea.
 They are long words, somehow clung to bark & earth.

We leave, I am roughly carried, the stairs
 pass more like dropping straight into water.
I do not return for years, am told not to,
 not just by the King my father who forbids
me nothing otherwise. Those I love in
 the caves & tunnels behind my chamber wall:

They say I treble in time. See was, is, &
 to-be at once. Our last banquet, every kind
present to honor my birthday. I talk of the Tower,
 of other dreams than these with them.
Hundreds of noses raise & sniff. Silence.
 I’ve decided. Or maybe my new woman’s blood has.

They forbid me return, my love for them
 their only power to protect me. I shake
my head, I go. Fear all of this for days
 until I am standing again in this place,
looking up. I will move your spy glass now, Architect.
 I’m ready to ascend your tree, your Tower, your star craft.

******

The Architect Remembers the Boy

They say the boy’s waxy wings melted &
 betrayed him when he too neared the sun.
They say the boy was my son. They say
 the boy was an ordinary boy. They say
The Tangled Gate is just a maze-prison
 with a hungry Beast-bastard within.

He was hungry when I found him, terrified
 of me, neither Beast nor boy. I fed him
from my bag, he calmed, he studied its color,
 the sky’s, though I thought him half-blind.
We talked by touch & I learned it was not
 The Tangled Gate which he feared, but the voices.

They spoke in words but he received them
 as clicks & noises he could not run from.
We listened together, & he understood,
 & he smiled. Yes. They had brought me to him
& now we would leave. Eventually, for him,
 the Island itself too. This wasn’t his home.

The voices led us from the Gate &
 I taught him the human tongue. He lived
with me in the Tower, & I schooled him,
 though not in the dull samely histories of
men’s wars & gods. I taught him how to let
 & release to those voices. Steer through many worlds.

And other ways to reach The Tangled Gate.
 A day too soon & it was time for us to go there
again. The King prepared to take the mainland,
 & he commanded every boy & man clapped in steel.
Though this boy could have fought & ended the war
 for either side himself, we left before dawn.

We flew together many places that day,
 I showed him the beautiful world of trees,
& mountains, the many seas, even the works
 of men. Many pointed, later made statues
& songs. When the sun approached its fiercest hour,
 I signaled to him to rise & to rise.

There were feathers & waxy drops all around me
 for a moment. He touched my mind & said goodbye.
I dreamed for years of his final plunge,
 perfect sexless body. All I had taught him,
what he would learn. They say this boy was my son.
 But men still clap for war, & say many foolish things.

******

The Architect Watches from His Tower

It’s really true men once grew from
 spasm & spit, from the awkward twist
of torsos, the fevered collide of breast
 & pelvis, suddenly the prick a catalytic
bomb, suddenly the cunt to which sought
 & resisted & sought for its planting ground.

How did we finally stop? Was it the wisdom
 desperation contrives with a conceding cry?
I don’t know, nor why I am here among
 these men. Negotiating for other outcomes.
I was sent to serve a King whose lusts
 are boring & easily filled. A bed & a torso.

Where she comes from, suddenly, I am aware.
 She is no daughter of this King. Her dreams
are not dreams by any reckoning. Brought
 to the Island, kept to her chambers,
her singing to rags & flower vases, she finds
 the Gate immediately. She enters.

Night after night, I watch her dreams
 from my chamber, watch her enter
the Gate deeper & deeper, no maps,
 not the tools I have for its feistier,
slipperier places. She makes within &
 the Gate responds, smooths & opens to her.

I don’t intend for her to meet me but
 when her brother’s dead body is returned,
we honor him as one. Though I alone
 know the boy’s intent was not victory
in games but peace making, I put on
 my robes, share the chants & the ground breaking.

She spies me from among her grieving parents.
 We exchange nothing, no nod, no smile,
but thereafter I haunt her Gate wanderings.
 Like I was the answer to a question
she didn’t have, & now it consumes us both.
 Across stars & centuries we will ask this question.

******

The Architect in Exile

I wake up in a dank tent to the noise
 of departure. Recognized, not knowing
even my name, I nod inly & begin
 to assemble my facts. We’d lost the last
key battle, & are going. Our enemies
 are blood-close, the worst kind, but
are allowing us a war-less path to exile.

There are several hundred of us, though
 there’d been many more. They are grim
but strangely not hardy. They are leaving
 because the army is gone. Like a pretty head
with no body, unable to compensate, to be other
 than a pretty head. The King makes them hurry.

When I enter his tent, he starts, wonders
 why I am not gone to the Island.
My new life solidifies in that space,
 I am here to survey & ready our new home.
I pack my bag, full of tools from a nameless
 future, & arrive before nightfall.

When I see the Gate, I nod, unhappy.
 The time beyond time is crumbling back
through these centuries, it makes no sense,
 but here I am again, here is the Gate,
I am trudging through summer mud
 toward what I know I will find.

In myths, the Tower is portrayed as
 my prison, where the King kept me
in punishment & service. This is a hole
 in the story, & the truth is absent
within its absence. It is no prison
 but my home in every place & time.

I do not serve the King but he wants something
 from me. I am his necromancer &
he believes the Gate will prove his
 best weapon. This greed gives me time
while I contrive a way to fuse the cracks.
 I am tired of tools & travel. I wish
only for my tree revealed, a day & a night
 without end. She will help me find
what I need. She will inherit my tools
 as reward & join me in the Gate.

******

The Architect is Her Teacher, Her Hummingbird

I first appear to you in the Gate as an invitation
 to believe. Your dreams of this place are still new,
a game you half-remember by morning, seeing
 as you have been trained to see, that there is no hole
in your chamber’s wall. I invite you to accept two truths
 about one thing. There isn’t a hole. There is.

You have a picture book, a simple telling
 of the hummingbird story, he who gave men
music & taught them to sing. You breathe this book
 through many days, memorize its few words
& many strange pictures. I see my chance
 to twine with your path, & softly take it.

One spring day you return to your paints &
 large sheets to find the hummingbird on
your page gone, as though never made.
 Waking next morning you discover it flitting
upon your chamber wall, as though always.
 In later days, moved again, the Queen’s half-wild garden.

You ask the King your father but his smile above
 his maps is mirthless, a thing of abstract love.
You even ask your friends behind the wall
 but they do not know what a hummingbird is.
Strangely, they do not care to try. As a child,
 you nearly leave this strange mystery quickly as it came.

I let you but one. You are walking the path
 in the Tangled Gate to the place you call
the Carnival Room. You are singing the hummingbird’s
 song, about how one day mankind will remember
its first song again, & fly away. As you make
 the last turn, I appear before you, set upon the air.

You gasp. You look. I am my question to you.
 This is your test. You hold out your finger to me,
half-smiling. I accept & you walk along, no words,
 just the potent of touch. As we both wake,
I am humming for you, & then we share this too.
 My bedchamber is as dark as yours is plush
with light. We each nod, & know. You now twice believe.

******

The Architect’s Record of the Time Beyond Time

You found, you read: “The storms became constant, wordlessly violent; the daily life of men & markets, ideologies competing mostly benignly, churches vaguely explaining their fences & roofs to the cattle within, new seers smiling with fresh ancient visions of humanity waking & rising as one, was over.

“What remained for most was the leash & a stingy bowl at nightfall. Hope was a little more light in the day’s grey sky, less snaggling wind at night. Where possibility still lay, at least for a few, was far below ground, in the great darkened halls of the sleepers, thousands of them clicking song, fed by tubes & awake less than an hour a day.

“The men of science, magick, & spirit had joined with the men of Art to contrive a solution. What remained unfouled of the seas & mountains & forests had been blended into this work, not to save the world but undo it, find the place beyond the Dreaming, by scavenging through history for the clue all believed was there, the thread out of time.

“If this all sounds lunatic, or a beautiful plan but far too late, or you dubious wonder that such diverse men were able to work together even at the end, you are right, you have read well. The minds of men did not contrive this plan, but others whose own world had been lost. They had tried & failed to convince, to help, for centuries, & it wasn’t working now. More sleepers would wake up dead, or simply disappear.”

What you did not read is what I did not write in those pages. I came back not intending to return. You are the thread. You are the clue. The Tangled Gate will seal the world, close its cracks, & those back then will not live nor die. My Tower has snapped the link back to them. You are the chance I follow.

******

The Architect Sees Her, & Again

At first we dreamers traveled history like shadows. 
There were few of us, drinking the foul potions 
 to cross beyond the Dreaming.
We scattered through times & lands, 
 & returned to report the details.
What we found was morass, not pattern.

The lives of men are governed as much by chance
 as will. By blood’s strange inheritance,
& the way desires will twist & deepen & half-rabid
 survive the years, by shell after shell.
Wars were fought over land, women, cankerous
 want for power & control in a world that
buries or blows to breeze every large man &
 his castle, every pauvre & his cup, every God-thing
& its statues & its followers & its very name.

More of us joined the first few sleepers, 
 & the chemicals got stronger. We slept more hours
of the day, surrendered lives & loves for this obsession.
 We began to invade & maul history, but nothing above improved.
Powerful men built grander edifices over dead soil,
 ranged greater seas of armies against each other,
queered mortal desperation into frenzied faiths.
 We below were forgotten. Didn’t matter.

This is why I’ve chosen not to return,
 to meet you at the Fountain near the entrance
to the Tangled Gate. I see you approach
 & keep my cover until you enter. You still carry
the blue bag I gave you. You never change
 through the centuries. I still shudder as
you hesitate, kick the golden leaves at your feet.
 Your breathing quicks, mine does too, & you enter.

******

The Queen & Her Beast

There are forces in this world no man taps,
 no man harnesses, no man controls.
Yet mankind, a living thing, roots from these
 forces, the plays & persecutions of its history
bides within their grasp, & though invitations
 to study their roots, grasp their trunks,
set lightly upon their leaves to read the pages
 better, are offered to each & all, few wake
from these, bray wildly for this more satisfying
 food, & make for the boundaries.

I watched the young Queen often. Stolen like a treasure,
 by agreement, from her kin’s palace in the sun,
married off to the King to maintain a peaceful war,
 she moved quietly within the halls of his anguish
for his dead wife. Unnoticed that she imported
 her seers & witchly craftswomen from back home,
& these piddlers in magickal currents that
 hardly knew them extant aided her to mesmer
the royal bed, conjure in his eyes, to his touch,
 the dead woman’s lips & breasts, fingers & hips.

I watched her as she came night after night
 to the beach, to hidden spy the chained cows
cry in fear & hunger for their starry fields,
 instead lures for powers from the seas,
victims of men’s belief that blood’s only choice
 is spending or spilling.

When I galloped from the waves, I snapped
 the links & bid them away. She trembled
too, but did not move. I approached her, huffing
 & snarling. Reached in, crumpled her mask,
calmed her down deep. I showed her unfurled
 power that night, sang for her scraps of
the first songs, drew her beat & breath
 far from that nocturnal beach, its celestial
foolishness above, speckled riddles to mock
 those wide-eyed with arrogance.

We crafted a pact, a new truth that would
 birth me into her world. She agreed to the lie
that we mated, & an unholy thing emerged,
 a shame to be caged, & slaved to new
bloodspill. She even commanded her tinker
 build her a sex-box to receive me. In return,
as we twined, I lit her every cavern with knowing,
 loosened men’s harness upon her heart,
revealed its better stars, its fenceless limits.

******

The One Woods & Its Beast

There is a maw to the heart of the world
 & from it I emerge. But you will find it
everywhere there is a far edge, a man,
 an idea, a shattering storm. The world
is no more still than any of its creatures,
 its music the transformation none will resist.

This morning is peaceful, I stay near
 my best-known oaks. I think about where
I’ve been, where I am now, I am nearing,
 I am trembling to quiet. Later there is feeding
all around me, a sharper-tongued wind,
 the beautiful violence of mating. Far edges.

Close my eyes & I am the near-blind man,
 my remaining sight still fluttering with
lilac & lily, moving with their scented light,
 scratching up a spark by glint & petal,
behold my colored silhouettes shaped like a God-thing.

Open my eyes & I am the scrawny prick-hard
 singer, finding my music beneath the night’s
sweeping skirts, insisting the oldest idols
 totter forward & people my lyrics,
grind bloodless hips new with the next hour’s
 unspent semen, its high crackling juice.

Close again & now the tall professor, behold
 my sepia-washed pictures, their hard press
at your jaw & shoulders to justify now
 your own sanity, resist this years-long game—

Again & now the dark man kneeling
 with my horn & shredding time—

The tides, the quakes, the rosebuds in
 her cheeks signaling blushing new love
or how her sickness consumes—

I am quiet this morning near my oaks,
 near the beating, breathing maw & yet—

I would warn you from the far edges inly
 & others bitter far, but hope you do not listen,
grow your berries over the cliff, move your herd
 before the snows intercede, drink that potion
& watch your fingers make the world glow—

I would warn you find the far edges or
 bray through your bars alway, grasp them
harder, love them better—little wonder what
 happens to those who cry out—& climb through—

I would say nothing & let you be as I am
 merely servant to the world, my task not
to preach but to rankle, stir the world’s power
 elsewise, give history an uncertain path,
so no way to grasp what’s occurring,
 & no way to know how it ends.

******

World’s Wish & Its Beast

There’ve been times, moments, places
 I’ve relaxed, & begun to believe. Winter lights
on a long boulevard, a hidden shade of
 cool salmon over low hills. Even battlefields,
yes, on moonless nights. Close to the dying,
 or dying myself again.

In memories I find it & would show it all
 around if I could. We danced that courtyard
through the night before you left, & you
 showed me your whys, what rotting,
what still pink. Or the flex of an old king’s
 fist, whatever kind of beast, the ways
power leaves, gently till abrupt. We runts
 remain of the One Woods & men call us
great, urge several link arms around
 one of our trunks for a picture.

Or a thing not a memory, because it didn’t
 quite occur. The excitement of moving bodies
swathed in sweat & smoke. The drums now,
 the words later, the way live eyes
sniff & listen. Among them I chase you
 that night, I cohere, I wish to know.

Your eyes crackle with fear of want,
 not mine but your own. You touch
my beard as though a pet. I tangle
 your hair with my fingers, still wish to know.
Someone moves in the pile of corpses, sighs,
 just a little, I hush him as though a night bird,
the wind.

There is what few kings age to understand.
 The world is garden, or garbage, or cemetery,
by how you stride your days, how you command
 me, your Beast, when a pretty, or a foe,
or something small you fear & would prefer crushed,
 how we together bound in the wide wild field
of dreams as you lay there breathing,
 & beating, & a thrash, & then still.

I remember the night, it was three, or a hundred.
 You were one, or several, as was I.
We’d fought for kings we’d never meet, never touch,
 & never know. We’d danced & I showed you
that boulevard, those trees, your smile, long & it lingered.
 As we lived, so we died, there were memories,
more forgotten. It was a time for believing,
 my maps, my uniform at first light,
the half-remembered lover in a photograph.
 As we together walk down empty streets, still looking on, still looking back,
there is no final thing to know.

******

We walked the One Woods together in my
 many dreams, you singing songs in your strange
own tongue, its clicks & noises, the way pink &
 yellow & blue would burst from the trunks & bushes
around us. It is always dusk, when light blurs
 & lingers, when a few stars peep out in the sky.

Then I wake. And you are far, as we agreed,
 & I am silent again. You leave me signs of song
in scattered clearings, spears of your colors
 struck into fallen logs. I read them
as they melt, sigils none other would know.

There is something you would have me do
 that I hesitate. You believe I was once a man,
& you my partner. You believe we played too close
 to the Eternals in our drive to control,
to shape, to break through their powers
 & time itself. Those years for me obscure in shame.

But your songs begin to convince me,
 & I wish you near again. The sacrifices 
we’ll need to crack the maw will come soon.
 They will not survive. They will fuel
the transformation. We will together
 blow through the heart of the world.

My only doubt is the girl not a girl
 who approaches again. I wonder if she
is a different way. I wonder if nobody
 has to die. I wonder why I must choose.
I find your songs in more & more clearings.

I stand now where we first met deep
 in the Tangled Gate so long ago, but
this is neither waking nor dream. I stand
 here to call down the stars from the sky
& find among them a truth to hold & pursue.
 I swap out handfuls, looking for the words
of light I need, crush & fold & block
 their heat even unto themselves in
my relentless need. When they speak,
 to guide my steps hereon, it is not men’s
tongue nor your spectral one. Their message
 is clear: bind the girl, consume the dancers.
Break the maw & absorb its every
 last dripping of power. She awaits.

******

The Beast & the Princess

You first came in lilies & soft morning sunlight.
You first came in the puzzles & formulas men call dreams.
I sniffed you, twice, but did not know if to call you friend.

You saw me & you jerked a bit. And you smiled.
And yet you were careful. And yet careful
had not been in your nature till you saw me.

I sat near you, & tried to look like a man
& tried to speak like a man, but you shook your head
no, no bother, in this Woods there is truth.

We played a game that morning, tap the air
& loose its notes, collect the notes & shape a thing.
Gently blow & lure its colors. Nod, exchange.

Last round you conjured a small white bunny,
pink nose, mesmering eyes, tranquil but
intent expression. I held it, felt its pulse.

You shook your head when I made to clap
hands, giving the creature back to the air,
as was common. Your smile bid me keep.

Did we meet again? Several times? Then fewer?
Then all I had of you was the white bunny,
who would sniff twice & be gone for days.

Soon I only had soft mornings trying to remember
the field where we met & played our game.
Where I did not need to conjure as man to please
 your company.

You do not return in dreams this time & 
I’ve long not shaped like men. I’ve long not
shaped & played the air for games.

I . . . hope . . . yes, I hope you will understand.
That you will help me with what I need to do.
That you will join us as we clap out the rest.

******

The White Bunny & the Beast

The white bunny returns, sniffs twice,
 & settles in my lap, as though I am a man,
as though I am a rare & trusted man.
 We still together, we watch, the morning
is full of small movements & light sounds.
 Her long ears rest on my arm, as though I have arms.

I begin to remember. I am a fist of men
 by a map, I am a volcano burying all.
I am many fish on many decks,
 breathing hard, breathing last.
I am paintings in castles & in closets.
 The white bunny nudges me return.

We sleep. I dream like a man & yet.
 The white bunny looks up at me
& I follow. Faster than any man’s legs,
 holding a . . . white thread? Through oaks
whose leaves remain despite the winter light,
 through places dark & unfinished in the Gate.

Now walking, but no longer a man’s form.
 A girl’s slender carriage, wispy torso,
& the bunny is waiting near a hole in
 the earth. Even though I am too large yet
we crawl through. A long long scrabble in the dark.
 My thread gives out but I continue to follow.

We come to an ancient structure, burst
 through a half-fallen wall, stand within.
Words in my head say: “The Carnival Room
 is near.” I am afraid, I am not afraid.
Which is truer? My face in many reflections
 is hard, soft, hers, his, its, nobody’s, all’s.

The bunny hops quickly, ears flashing, & I follow
 on my girl’s light legs through rooms of
detritus & decay, at last to a room where we stop.
 She looks up at me, raises her pink nose, & again,
& I enter. I hear cacophony, song. I see doors
 mounted on walls, beckoning. A tunnel into
the darkness, where its long wheeled carriage
 intends. Two yellow-skinned brothers observing
me, plucking stringless instruments, songs of laughter.
 A tiny creature at my feet, black & white,
nattering at me in . . . click-clicks & noise-noises?
 I am delighted, I wish to go. I look back but
the white bunny is gone. There is a black thread.

I follow the thread back, feeling the girl
 in me recede, feeling larger & more helpless,
burst choking & breathless from the earth.
 The return is swift, there is no adventure left.
I follow the black thread back to my seat
 & rest with it in my hand, alone. I wake
& don’t look down. No thread, black or white.
 No bunny. Something wishes to convince me
elsewise. Something would have me
 save what I would destroy.

******

At the Fountain

Remember some things. The Fountain comes first.
 But in my dreams, & later through the Architect’s
spy-glass, I never beheld it so crackling
 with life, sparkling with a kind of madness
for me to drink, drink. How is it water
 tastes like remembering too? Yet so.

Having drunk with both hands, we calm.
 It is very tall, very old, yet powerful,
& wishing to share of that power. Nestles
 close to, & yet apart from, the ancient trees
around it. Good men built this long ago,
 they seem to say. Yet they were still men.

Left or right? No way on but choose.
 Which way in my childly dreams?
Which way as my finger traced the Architect’s
 maps? I asked him once. He looked me
dead on, as rare, his eyes a swooping stroke
 down my cheek, across my neck, among
the more daring for attention clothes
 I ever wore for him. One finger tapped his head,
another his heart, a third his nose, but twice.

I think of the Pensionne, my adopted home,
 miss it fresh, leave it again, sniff twice with
this feeling, & choose left. The walls around me
 are twice my height, a dark, thick mix of
stones & vines. Very alive. The sky above is
 a blue . . . the kind I knew in those dreams!

I stop. Look down. Touch my face, my breast,
 my hips. I am neither grown nor become young
again. I range at once along all my years.
 Gift of the Fountain & its mad waters?

Oh. The box of colored threads. The Architect had
 left them in his Tower, in a place where only I
would look. The day he held me, the day I left.
 His words were gentle, salved my grief. Gestured
to a loose stone in the wall behind our couch.
 ”The rock knows more of time than men reckon.”
He sang to me: “The many kinds of time,
 the binds of time, & how it looses to the air.”

Our couch is gone, but the stone remains.
 The box is made of oak, swimming in obscured
sigils, warm to the touch. I had only seen
 the black one, path to the Beast, but knew
there were others. I count a dozen.
 A legend inside the cover. Ah beautiful.

Before I came here, I visited the Dancing Grounds
 one more time. Felt what old in me snap off,
felt myself burst through. The box where I’d
 left it with my clothes had shrunk to fit my blue bag.
Now it is larger again. I look around, remember
 my friends & adventures here, sniff twice.

I select the green thread. “Recover something dear.”
 Return briefly to the Fountain, tie it to a stony hook,
begin again. Move slowly at first, as though learning
 to walk. Occasionally there is a breach,
not decay, not time. The ruin of anger & blows.
 The ground remains like always gentle beneath
my bare feet. I hurry. I dance. I remember.

I round a turn & recover something dear.
 My friends. My friends! From behind the hole
in my bedchamber wall discovered only in
 childly dreams. Too many to count.
I think they’ve all come. They crow & cry,
 click & howl. Nothing to forgive. Never was.

******

Remembering Her Exile

They lead me to a clearing where all may
 sit, perch, float calm upon the air.
There is no gap of time between us,
 & yet the story to be told. I have returned
to the Island, bid so by my dreams,
 they wait quietly & wish to know my path.

“There was to be war with the mainland.
 The King my father was ready to return
& claim again his throne. I listened from
 my hidden place to his counsels with
soldiers and ministers. It would be bad.
 But my brother’s death while peace-making
had led through years to a sympathy,
 a willingness to take on the apocalyptic
zealots who occupied the King’s capitol,
 prepared it ruinously for end-times.”

There is not even the twitching of a nose.
 A stray wind raises fur here & there,
a few green spikes, royal purple feathers.
 These creatures know what dark cities
men dwell in their homes & hearts,
 & they would wish me keep near to them instead.

“The King’s plan was a secret, well hid
 below the tribute of virgin dancers from
the mainland which presumed to keep
 him satisfied. The zealots believed this kind
of offering to be sufficient, that we exiled pagans
 used these virgins to appease the Eternals,
maintain our ancient practices but contained
 on our Island prison. When the days of
final fire came, we would be easy for their
 wraithful savior to find, to annihilate.”

The trees are bare here, a few fallen yet
 all lovely. A glint of water in the distance.
I find this telling hard. I find it sad.

“The Architect had arranged my escape.
 I would go with the dancers & leave
the Island forever. He knew, & told me
 in those last days, that the Beast did not
consume them, in truth bore them far away
 though he knew not where. But this time
it would not happen.”

Several of my friends join me in my place
 on the grass. Next to me, my lap, near.

“He took charge of the delivery of the dancers
 to the Gate, & thence the Beast. I was
given the black thread, & hidden close by.
 When they came, I demanded inspection.
The Hero among them was easy to spy out.
 As our soldiers watched, I knocked him
about the head, cursed, pushed him down,
 slipped him the thread, & as I pounded him,
him smiling & scrapping a touch of
 my breast, I told him the words
that would allow them to follow the thread
 to the Beast, & return safely. For there
was no choice. The King would watch
 some of their progress from the Architect’s
Tower, his great spy-glass.”

Now more of them are near. Fur of violet,
 cream, crimson. Many bears. Three giraffes.
The white bunny, of course, & her fellow tenders.

“We left by darkest night on the boat
 arranged by the Architect. We sailed
away without notice. The Hero commanded
 the ship & all seemed to credit him
our escape.” I pause, trust my friends,
 & go on. “When he came to my cabin
in the night, I had more words from the Architect
 to repel him.”

I wish to finish. “He left a few of us
 on another island. We woke from a night
of celebration, the beach empty but for
 the half-dozen of us. Our cups had been
poisoned. I was relieved. The others
 were terrified & looked to me.”

“You led them back safely to the cities
 of men?”
I nod. “There was a boat eventually.
 I told of our shipwreck. I was no longer
the Princess from the prison Island of pagans.
 I was a traveler & a scholar from far lands,
& my party followed me in this.”

“You are tired.”
“A little more. Eventually, we returned
 to the mainland. The war was over,
but no victor. I chose to keep my exile
 & disguise even when my companions
left me, returned to their homes.”

I lay back, finish. “The Pensionne I came
 to, I think it was the last gift from
the Architect. They knew me true
 & cared for me. I thought I’d found a new home
but they were simply letting me rest,
 letting me wish to return here again,
if I chose.”

There’s more to tell but I’ve exhausted
 my hours. My friends lead me to a safe
place, bundle me to sleep among them.
 I feel most the child again, feel their love
so simple, so vast. I fall asleep &
 mercy of mercies, I do not dream.

******

She Follows the Traveling Troubadour

I wake & most of my friends are gone,
 back home safe. Only three of my dearest
remain, & will guide me, my dangers their own,
 always. The white bunny, the nattering
little imp, the turtle who isn’t a turtle.

My thread is played out, & I guess to pick
 a new one, when I hear music & a
 man’s occasional sweet voice. My friends
 press me to follow this music, leave my
thread be. He will lead us. He is the Traveling Troubadour.

We follow without seeing him. His music alone
 leads us. I think about the Architect,
my reason for returning, & hope this is the way.

They knew of my Architect at the Pensionne.
 Not ill will but . . . something. Even as they
readied me for my return, they tried to warn me
 about him. That I did not know him so well
as I thought. I tried to listen but their words
 were vague & hollow. You’ve called me to return,
& I have, I am, I do. Nothing else remains.

The music grows distant but my friends
 do not hurry us. We let it fade. I sit
beneath a tall oak. Feel no hunger at all.
 My friends sit near. We wait. Remaining
day passes. We nap lightly in a curled grasp.

The Architect walks up to me, takes my hand.
 Grim as ever but glad to see me.
I follow him at an increasing pace, my friends
 rush to keep us. We come to a black cave
in the earth, silent, impenetrable.

He gestures, once, the second time angrily.
 ”Go. Now.” I pause. I want to say something
but I don’t. I gather my friends in my arms
 & cross into the cave. We are shocked
by what we see but I wake up
 unable to remember what it was.
No Architect. Still beneath the oak.

I stand. There is no music. Consider
 my collection of threads. The crimson one,
“for greater understanding,” is what I choose.
 We move along, the white bunny
hurrying us, the imp nattering crazily. 
 The turtle is quiet, but not a turtle.
We are coming to something, my bones feel
 its jittering power. Very close.

******

Wherefrom the Beast

I come to you again. I remember you.
 We contrived creatures from the air,
like those I travel with. I remember you now.

You are an old story, far older than men,
 old as the earth. You were created long
before men. To walk the earth. One, none, many.

You were not given the rules by which to abide.
 A mortality. An I among many. You shifted,
& did not die. And then you did. And then you lived on.

You are unable to tell me but something troubling.
 Danger not to you but to me, us, men?
I cannot understand, you are trying to be gentle.

Suddenly, fiercely, I see. I treble in time.
 Tree, Tower, starcraft, but here, not there.
I look far & see how the future is collapsing back.

Oh. Again, here, my friends sniff me twice
 & wait. That cave. I was in there.
The crimson thread in my hand. I think I know.

The Encounter

There are many magicks in the world,
 & I watch you walk among several.
Your friends gird you powerfully with
 their love, their deep roots in the earth.
The cave you enter to know better is
 more of a danger, but I cannot get near.

I follow as wind, as glare on water,
 as winter leaves. Waiting for a moment
to give you word. I spy your blue bag &
 make a move. Affix myself as hummingbird
& wait. Listen to your chatter with
 your friends. They want you to leave with them.

I can’t let you go. I begin to hum close
 to your ear, risk this, you look around,
but nothing. Your friends sniff twice,
 & I am exposed.

We sit. The tiny one comes up to me,
 nattering in an unknown tongue,
entering my mind, pushing things
 around, I cry out finally & you say
a word to retrieve her to your hand.

The long-eared one stares intently
 at me & I strangely calm, lean
back, nearly dream. She does not press
 or pry but wearies me & I cannot
respond, whimper, & again your word.

The green-shelled one does not but
 sit in your lap, guarding against me.
“I have no such friends as these,”
 I finally say. “I did not come to
harm you. Please believe me.”

You stand, bid your friends wait,
 we walk apart from them.
“You asked me to find you here.”
 I grimace. “You’re greatly needed.”
She nods obscurely. 
 There is a silence between us.
She no longer needs a teacher.
 She picks up her blue bag without a word.
Her friends let me follow, at a distance,
 & I know the helpless fear of ordinary men.

******

A Wish to Heal

“You are not what you seem, a Princess, 
 a usual young woman. You are from a far place,
now gone. A beautiful place that was rotted,
 used up, by men not unlike those here you know.
You were sent here, when small, to change
 the path, make the world’s path elsewhere.

“They could not know when or where you would
 land, but they gave you what powers they could.
To dream powerfully, to treble in time. Their gifts.
 The blue bag you carry in my gift to you,
given when you left the Island, lined with power,
 protection. Fewer limits on your mind & body.

“I am learned, I see through shells, but I am
 just a man. I come from a time men have
ruined, & it half-rots, & I will not return.
 I’ve come beyond the Dreaming to find you,
because you are the thread out of time,
 & this Tangled Gate bears your way.”

She & her friends remain still. Her friends
 know I sniff wrong, but I’ve come to help.
She speaks. “What do we do?” “Pick a thread.”
 ”How will I know?”

For a moment I’m tempted to reassure her,
 to tell her she will know, that her will
& instinct, the love of her friends, my counsel,
 the deep power in the heart of the world,
will easily prove enough, but I don’t.

“There are many threads in your box.
 Choose one, & we will go.” It’s not much
of an answer. She’s still waiting, as she
 often did when I taught her. Stubborn
for whatever words unsaid. “The world
 is mysteries enough for us,
& it cares for us in its own ways. But the world
 belongs to something else. You’d stare yourself
blind into the sun & not know, not be sure,
 not be able to return & use what little
you kept for your better survival.” She nods.
 Motions for me to near her. Brings out
the beautiful box from her blue bag.

Her friends sniff & do not like this box.
 I don’t suppose they would but they remain
silent. She studies the threads remaining,
 stares up into the light a moment,
then selects the purple thread. “A wish to heal.”
 We stand. She hands me the end of the thread.
Shakes her head at her friends.
 ”When you feel a tug, follow.” And then she goes.

******

The Pensionne & the White Tiger

A turn & I have left my friends & the Architect,
 save for the purple thread. The path ahead
falters & I find myself climbing over debris
 of vines & rocks. Soon beyond the remains
of walls but the paths remain as small stones.
 Strange shapes, placed at equal distances.

Then I discover who is placing them, & think me
 dreaming. It is the White Tiger from the Pensionne!
My old friend. I worry this strange place will
 render us strangers to each other but he turns,
sees me, & bows his head for my embrace.
 For a moment gone from wonder, simple happy knowing.

They gave me work in the great garden
 when I arrived there. I had brought no treasure
but had heard the Pensionne was generous
 to poor travelers. My room was small
but with a tall window for sun & stars.
 They let me sleep many days till I was ready.

There was work in the kitchen too,
 after the dinners, the one meal of the day
not nuts & fruits. It was good work
 to lose my thoughts in, the water’s hot breath
calmed me, kept my focus simple to the task.
 When others joined, there were songs.

Some were war songs, which I did not like,
 even though extolling the King my father
as a returning hero, half a god in his armor.
 While the Pensionne was far from the bloodspill,
there was a greed there for news of the battles,
 a hunger for violence against the zealots who had
stolen so much, a deviling wish to burn them all.

There was more often peace in the garden.
 It become my domain from before light
to afternoon. Many days I saw only the faces
 of the many blooms, heard only shaking leaves
in the wind. I tempted often to dance at dawn
 as I had on the Island. But my dreams rarely
followed me into waking, & my feet rarely
 pressed me to dance. I did my work. I was quiet.

A plate in each hand, I noticed the White Tiger
 through the kitchen window & asked the others.
They laughed, said it appeared to a few but
 none too close, & anyway caused no damage.
That night I dreamed of the Architect in his Tower
 & I asked him. Tapped his head, his heart,
sniffed twice, but I stomped. “No. Tell me.”
 ”I don’t have to. He will himself.” “He’s not
an ordinary beast?” “He’s a tender. You’ll be
 his apprentice.” “A tender?” He smiled at me,
warm & sweet, I practically swooned like a gossip,
 & was gone.

I don’t remember how we finally met,
 or what we spoke of our many days.
I remember his beautiful white fur
 with its deep black stripes. I remember
his blue eyes. Eventually I dreamed again,
 & danced alone at dawn those last mornings there.

He feels real as I embrace him, the soft growl 
 through his perfect coat. I show him my thread
in a try to explain & he pushes close to my face,
 makes me look better. His blue eyes
are now flecked with the same purple.
 No longer master & pupil, but we will go together again.

******

Another Kind of Thread

We push stones into place, restoring paths
 to a great length of the Tangled Gate.
Sometimes we separate & work at different paths,
 & I worry he’ll be gone like he never was.
But he finds me, head down for embrace,
 blue eyes flicking purple, & we go on.

Eventually come again to the One Woods,
 it is never far here, & walk side by side
through its great trees. My purple thread
 is running low, & I have to decide:
return, tug & wait, or go on?

When I reach the end, we stop. I think
 of the Architect, & my dear friends back there,
love them, adore him, sniff twice, & look
 at my tender friend. Really look. His fur
a wildly bright white, his stripes a moonless
 night’s dark. White & black, like my threads?
He rears back & roars with a wonderful joy.

I tie the purple thread to a low tree branch.
 Half bury the box of threads among the stones
at the tree’s base. Tug. I hope my clue is clear to them.
 My tiger bows low that I may mount him
& ride. Now we can go at his pace, which is
 as swift as my white bunny’s We ride.

The swifter we go, the blurrier the landscape,
 & I seem to see other things. The outlines
of strange buildings, vehicles. I look up &
 there are metallic crafts endlessly shifting
form. I feel purpose without words. A sense
 of hurry. Stronger than ever, a wish to heal.

Then out of the One Woods, up over a hill &
 below a place I should know but don’t.
Several buildings close together among wide
 fields, but these buildings are half fallen,
probably deserted. My friend slows his pace,
 becomes almost hesitant. Sniffs twice.
Ah. I pat him twice, he kneels & dismounts me.
 We are here. I am here again.

My friend does not go further, I wouldn’t 
 let him. We embrace & I see his eyes again
are their own summery blue. I turn &
 continue my path as he silently bounds away.

******

She Enters Clover-dale

Alone, I approach. No threads, no teachers.
 No friends save a sense of all these
in the feel of me. Will what’s to come
 be new, or further pieces to join
with the others? I feel both potent
 & helpless, sniff twice, & near.

The steps up to the main entrance crumble
 below my feet, release to the earth as
I use them. The first room is dank & cluttered,
 filled with kitchenware, weapons, books,
as though packing & flight interrupted by
 death, or despair. No need to sniff here.

The next room shines with many reflections,
 an unseen light shows me as a child,
a crone, a Queen, a beggar, a barebacked
 dancer, a creature like my many friends, even
a great growly thing. Me a Beast?
 This one I study, take its calm for my clue.

I pass on. The air becomes outdoors chilled
 & I find myself in a featureless desert
slashed by sun’s winter heat. I walk & walk
 until I arrive at a kind of exit, a door
in sight. There is a hut before it, & within
 sits a small exotic man. Old as deserts.

He comes out, makes to bow like a servant,
 I shake my head, touch his small shoulder.
He smiles with several teeth but now
 I feel in him the same great calm power
as my beastly image. Then he laughs, braying
 with delight, & begins to gnatter like my tiny imp friend.

Not thinking, not feeling, not sniffing this time,
 I gnatter in return, high & low click-clicks
& noise-noises. A kind of play, but I knew that.
 A kind of song too? The more we gnatter,
the more we treble in time, see this desert
 long ago as a great watery basin, 
far hence filled with starcraft.

“But what am I to do?” I suddenly
 say in familiar tongue. “Who am I
to heal?” The little man smiles his lovely
 craggy smile, & motions me to the door
beyond him. “Just play through, my friend,”
 he whispers, “& find the Carnival Room.”

******

The Carnival Room

In childly dreams I visited my friends
 who lived in caves & tunnels behind the wall
of my bedchamber. My first time I did not
 know I was still sleeping when I heard
a singing voice. I did not wonder, as one
 does not wonder in dreams, at the hole.

I quietly crept through the hole, listening.
 Sometimes the singing voice was gay,
sometimes tragic, but it never ceased.
 I met the white bunny first, not a word,
but instantly my friend. She showed me
 how to hop the tunnels, remember by sniff.

All admired the gnattering little imp, her strange
 play with objects, now this, now that,
now here, now gone! But her tricks ran
 deeper, her play like a wise funny book
written on the water, finished in the air.
 So many friends, & weeks of sleeping hours
to know them, each time I climbed through
 the hole. The white bunny waited. We went.

I could not forget the singer though none
 knew where he was. Sometimes his voice
joined our songs, our laughter, even the gnattering
 imp would seem to play & teach among
his tunes. One grew used to the singing,
 like an ocean’s tide. One wished to gift in return.

I gathered my friends together & told
 them we must make the singer a gift.
A small box, to keep his most valued possession.
 With a few words I borrowed from the Architect
(he had so many!), this box would be most protected.
 Every friend gave a stone, or a jewel,
a feather, a scale, a nut, a clipping of fur.

With the white bunny, the gnattering imp,
 & the turtle who isn’t a turtle, we traveled
for many of my dreams, listening closely,
 nearing, then not so near, the singer.
I feared will would not be enough, despaired
 a little. The singing grew despairing too.

I sniffed twice, & begin to laugh. The singing
 joined me, as did my friends. Laughing
became a happy song, a song of finding,
 a song of gifts. We hurried, we slowed.
There were no rules to finding him. 
 He did not know where he was. 
We sang. We gnattered. We neared.

I felt us very close now, we all did,
 the singing filled us whole but, still,
not quite. I sniffed twice, & took a deep leap.
 ”There is a door,” I sang, “& now we pass
 through. There is a door. And now we pass through!”
And so we arrived in the Carnival Room,
 the root of the singing, its Tower, its starcraft.

One had to look around like singing,
 one had to listen closely like singing,
one had to walk like singing, sniff like singing,
 & always keep singing, or one found
one’s self back in an ordinary tunnel
 & the singing close & elsewhere like always.

So much to see, a feast of wonders:
 vast, deep mirrors, with shifting tales
  writ on them—doors hung high
upon walls, & other places they would
 lead—a painting of a great wheeled
carriage on rails—& when I sang &
 laughed & gnattered my best, there were
two exotic brothers, one playing a stringless
  guitar, the other dancing with a castle
 upon his head, their songs joined my
  laughter, & the general gnattering, &
the singer’s happy cries, many, one, none.

The singer, I learned, could only be
 found in this way. not a solid form,
but by habitation. He was his many songs,
 & those he shared, & this was his function,
& this was his happiness. In my many childly dreams,
 I did not question this. It was answer enough.

Now, feeling like I am far from those
 childly dreams, & yet, I listen for his
music, any note or quiver of it. The rooms
 I pass through grow large & larger,
sometimes empty, sometimes furniture
 the size of mountains. Always a half light.
No sound but my bare feet hurrying.

I try to remember the songs, even just one,
 but they elude me. We sang many,
& many times over. Just one. Nothing.

Then . . . music! but not singing. Instruments.
 A squeeze box, two fiddlers. I come to
a room of my own size again, dark but
 noisy. I follow the music. A long tunnel.
Follow the music. Now a . . . platform
 above rails, like the picture from
the Carnival Room! It is close, but
 I look for the musicians.

They are indeed three. An old man
 with a mess of hair, in a long grey coat,
playing the sunniest day on the many
 yellowed keys of his old squeeze box.
The fiddlers tall, thin, so very thin, barefoot
 like me, dressed in faded harlequin
rags, dancing & fiddling with eyes closed.
 They do not notice me. I listen.

Then, I begin to dance. Not just to dance
 like remembering. The years fall away
completely & I am dancing with all of me.
 Dance like laughing, dance like gnattering,
dance like singing under the big moon,
 under none. I dance like the tides,
like the tallest oaks, like everything
 I can conjure. I forget the where
& the what of it all, forget to sniff
 twice & know, I dance back my years
to far away unknown places, & dance
 on to the many I will become & know
in other times. As the roar of the great
 wheeled carriage escalates, I return,
as best I can. The musicians have
 finished too, & gaze me quietly.
I am arrived finally at this moment
 of my self, this perpetuity. I am ready.

******

The Carriage Through

There is travel here I do not understand,
 brutal speed, like the hours & miles need
more than tame, they must be flayed.
 This carriage speeds wildly through my mind
& for a long moment my eyes remain shut.
 My thoughts turn to a memory, the Architect’s son.

We were kept apart in the Tower, faces in the
 stone staircase assured his distance from me.
But one time, when I reacted as a silly girl,
 not an empathetic person.

I was left alone, as rare, & no stones
 presumed to forbid me. I found him in
his chamber, & a thousand candles lit.
 At first I could not see him. “You’re beautiful,”
a voice in my ear, a hand on my cheek, a breath.

I say nothing but move away. “Are you scared?”
 Still nothing. “I wish you belonged to me instead
but neither of us is of this world anyway.”

Another breath, there is darkness, & I am
 tumbled into an embrace. Touched high &
low, strangely, I am not scared. Just the wrong
 hands. Stranger still, when he for a moment
presses my thighs open to push himself in,
 there is nothing. Nothing there between his.

I am shocked. I laugh. He falls away, cries out,
 is gone. I return to the Architect’s office.
Say nothing. I learn how that works.

I open my eyes now & I see you for a moment.
 I smile. “You’re beautiful too.” His look
is inscrutable, waiting. “You were giving me
 a clue.” He nods. “Are we from . . .
the same place?” “I think so.” “Is that where
 we’re going?” “You are.” “But you’re here,
in this carriage!” His smile is sad & leaving.
 “Only a message. They will think you something
else & try to claim you. You are there to heal,
 solely.” I nod. “I’m sorry.” “I wish I had
kissed you. Just to see. Just to know.”

I am alone on the carriage as it marauds
 its path through hours & miles, & more.
There is nothing to see through the windows.
 I wait, afraid to dream, miss everything,
whatever I am, whatever it was.

The carriage arrives in daylight & I am
 awake from lost time. I hear shouts,
crowds. “She is here! She saves us!
 She is here!”

There are many, they are pale, they live in
 these high caverns, they dream to heal
the world. They are failing. I am the waited
 legend. The first to cross the Dreaming
from elsewhere. As I am shown their
 small sleep chambers each inhabits most
hours of his life, the brew each drinks
 to cross the Dreaming, I wish to comfort
more than I can. Yet here & there I sniff twice,
 to know better, & understand.

They think I have solved their riddle, how to heal
 not hearts but history. They wait my command
to help. Crowd around me, wonder why I delay.
 “There isn’t time. There isn’t time.”

Their many faces grow rough with expectation.
 “You came. You were promised.” I feel
compelled toward a sleep chamber, toward
 drinking their brew. At the moment I set
to fight, to run, there is a roar through
 the caverns, the millennia, everywhere, always.

******

New Ways to Heal

When the purples thread tugs at my hand,
 we hurry. No longer at odds, we are as one
determined to find her & help her.
 We’ve sat together waiting & learned
one another. I have learned new tongues,
 pushed myself not to think solely like a man.

They take turns with me, because I am slower
 & must mind each one. The white bunny
tends my hands, shows me their pain,
 spreads them out straight to my whimpers,
shows me their beauty, lets me cradle her
 & feel what now flows bright & easy between us.

The nattering little imp compels me to crouch
 low to her level & gnatter too, high & low,
she clicks & cackles & adjusts my mind closely,
 gently, not simply to open me within
& expose my all, but to scour out the rot
 from my long years among men & their wars.

The turtle not a turtle goes last & I expect another lesson
 or clearing, feel humble, ready, glad,
but he falls asleep in my lap & I let myself too.
 We share a dream travel together,
& he brings me to where she would visit
 them, deeper reaches in it, I am walking
upright now, I am clear. I see the Red Bag
 & know this is what they were all
leading me to, readying me for.

I wake & they are all in my lap, like
 oldest dearest friends. We sniff once
like a hello, gnatter a joke or two between
 us, & then the tug.

We go together but there is something in this
 that is me leading now. We will find you,
we will protect you. When we arrive to your thread
 tied to the tree, the box of threads
buried below, I know, I am clear, I sit
 down with these friends of yours & mine
& do what I hadn’t thought to. I braid
 the remaining threads together, close
& tight. I work silently yet there is music
 near, singing. My friends are near me,
they wait, they are patient to my task.

The threads now form a much longer
 line & their power glows. This line
will not run out. The box I stow in my cloak
 & I tie the braid’s end to the thread
on the branch. We begin together to find
 you, protect you, save you. I was wrong
before that you are the thread. We share
 this among us, with these colored tools,
the trees, the Gate. We will do this task
 together. We will learn how together.

******

The Believers

We know the words used to describe us:
 zealots, fanatics. We know the hatred of
those who would oppose us. We know, too,
 how the world ends, dead air, dead soil,
& a failed try to undo the disaster.

Once we thought the Tangled Gate was the way
 to undo the vision it showed us.
Yes, I was one of the party that landed
 on the Island’s shore, when it was all forest,
found the Gate, saw what was to come.

We were given a choice: save mankind or
 save the world. We chose the first on
that day. We each entered the cave of
 the Beast & brought it down. As the last
of us emerged, there were no longer sounds within.

Now, of those six, only you & I remain,
 & we will never sit together at table again.
Your numbers diminish by the years
 & what matters more is that I will efface
you from history itself. You will unbecome &
 I will powder your bones on the sea.

All for the girl. All because you could not
 accept your loss, & chose to truck with
the demons you call Eternals. Now she
 is gone & your demons are fled you.
My brother, you fight on as if no choice.

But when there is nothing left, when the Island
 itself, & the Gate, & the girl, are all no more,
perhaps you will come to me. Perhaps I will forgive.
 Perhaps I won’t. Perhaps, as you said to me,
there are stranger strengths in the world that
 will write our final fates.

That last night. I knew before the rest
 you were going, you would take what the demons
called Eternals offered. I pounded the table
 between us until every lamp in the empty hall
shook. “Is there none of the Saviour’s mercy
 left in your heart?” “What Saviour?” you said
bloodlessly. You showed me your fist, pounded your chest,
 then opened your hand, tapped your shaggy head.
“These will save me. There is nothing else.”

You see a hole in the bosom of the world,
 brother. I fill that hole up day after day,
& feel his beat grow strong enough to save us all.

******

The Architect’s Record of Time Beyond Time (ii)

Wishing you could hear too, I recite for our friends the last pages in my book: “The force of human history was on the side of the fist, not the open hand. Both were powerful, but one spoke to the most helpless fears of mortal men, that whatever health or happiness or prosperity was achieved, it would not be maintained. Beat would slow, breath would stop, mind would cease. Not a billion preachers of a billion magickal, instructional, or just comforting words could prove otherwise.

“Proof, assurance, a reply to despair, lay beyond men’s daylight lives of grab & fuck. Even as they belonged to their world in a way few could really know, their world belonged to something else. It lay in the open hands of those who had begat it from the ashes of other worlds, other men. While no longer corporeal, these others had their effect, nudged into history some of its brilliant moments. But they saw over the centuries that it was not working.

“The Tangled Gate preceded human history as a portal to this world, a crossroads where intentions of the Eternals could be made manifest. It is the source of human dreams, that nightly clue of worlds elsewhere, of many kinds, with offers of many threads. Dreams inspired men to build, to create, to raise up civilizations but, as before & before & before, it was not enough. Those who believed men apart from their world, superior to it, meant to feed blindly & breed more feeders perpetually, & explain their exception to all other life as the will of an invisible hand they alone resembled, failed to understand that hand, that it held all, that it was many hands, that these hands more & more despaired, that beyond time itself these many hands would contrive a child, not a saviour but the one who would take of this world something as it ended, something of it beyond it, to the next world, that as she passed through the Red Bag, she would no longer be merely human but the world itself, its lessons, its losses, its beauties, its smallest sounds, its heart living still as what was left behind was abandoned by the Eternals for lost, as men did not save themselves, as their world did not recover its grand & subtle power, as time itself ran out & the last breath, & the last beat, & the last dream.

“I am going back to find you, & follow you, if you will let me. Perhaps you need an ordinary man in the next world too, who hopes & fears as its men will hope & fear, who will help them know time & death & dreams as you have failed to. I leave tonight.”

He looks at his three companions, her closest friends, & there is no upset in them, & he wonders what he does not know. He has never loved the way he loves them, loves her. He would protect them all if he could, if he wasn’t just a man.

The white bunny sniffs twice & begins to hop, slowly, waiting. The tiny imp begins to gnatter a song, & follows hurriedly, as does the turtle who isn’t a turtle. The Architect stands, follows, catches up, the braided thread playing out from his hand as they go.

******

The Road Away

Suddenly, elsewhere. When I open my eyes,
 I find myself leaning against the shoulder
of my strange friend from childly dreams.
 He is playing our game, nudging music
from the air, giving it shape. His touch
 is light, gentle, but to its purpose. Turns
to me with his strange smile, shows me
 his work. My friend, the white bunny.
I am pleased. She sniffs twice, takes me lap.

“Where are the others?”
“She is here & there both.”
“Where are we?”
“Near the road away.”
“Away?”

His look is sad. He nears resembling a man,
 then more a tree, a swarm of insects,
a high tide on an empty winter shore.
 But still sad.

“Please. I am your friend. I am strong.”
“I know.”
“Who were those people? The sleepers.”
“The last of men. Your Architect’s people.”
Um. I nod. Try to think. The Beast saved me
 from them, means me well. Yet—
“Will you come with me?”
“No. I remain.”
“And my friends?” The white bunny is asleep in my lap.
He makes to stroke her fur, hesitates, doesn’t.
 “They are a part of men. They come from
the dreaming mind, the shaping hand. You will
meet them wherever you pay attention.”
 Feeling helpless, I begin to anger some.
“What is my choice in this? Tell me.”

 The Beast now seems to comprise every thing
that walks, flies, & swims the earth. “Where there
is life, there is choice. But sometimes not
the ones we would wish.”

 I hug him, among his branches, his buzzings,
his ocean deeps. His empty canyons, under
full moons, his frozen streams, his spring
rains. His green buds, his curling leaves.
I hug him like my beating & my breath,
my dancing, my music, my singing. My many loves.
I want to remember it all.

“Thank you. Safe journey. Goodbye.”

******

Processional

The road away is long & straight, brown plains
 on either side. I feel as though something
withholds from me, an unsure stranger here.
 Sniff twice, thrice, four times, a shimmer,
nothing. I think of the white bunny asleep
 in my lap, imagine her legs extended,
her ears flying back, tug for this in my mind,
 & find myself changed, thought & instinct
one, tug a little deeper, & I treble in time.

A shimmer, a break. Back, hence? Neither, both.
 None, one, many. Here is no time & every time.
The fields are brown, are green, are seas,
 are filled with starcraft. The road remains.
I am not alone, but need to tug more clearly.
 I stop hopping, steady, close my eyes,
feel around. There . . . a thread, but thick,
 it is braided. Open my eyes & see.

The Eternals are departing this world,
 this is their processional away.
There is sadness but something else,
 something I could not have known,
a kind of waiting joy. Something new
 to come to, open hands, open doors, strange chances.

Seeming unnoticed, I hop among their numbers,
 they have their hierophants too, feathered up
like hawks & eagles. Their initiates in rainbow
 garb, simple, humble. Others who know
better carry instruments, pipes, guitars,
 horns, sometimes cluster & raise up
stomping songs. Staying near the braided thread,
 I continue hopping forward through the
processional, toward the glinting, glaring
 thing ahead. It is the sea.

Distracted, delighted, I am become girl again,
 & wonder if this is the Island’s shore, or even
its same sea. They are all one, I realize.
 One, none, many. The initiates, the musicians,
the hierophants too are splashing, bathing
 one another. I keep a pace apart when
I am approached by a smiling man, familiar.

It is the Hero who abandoned me & the others
 to that island. He holds out open hands &
bids me listen. “It was by the Architect that
 I did all I did. His will led me through all my
actions regarding you.” The surf, noise, & laughter
 cascades around us. “Are you among this
number?” “No. Not really. I was sent to guide
 you.” Silence. He looks closer at me, arrogance
& brute expectation gone from his face. I wait.

We sit on the sand, watching the revelry.
 He speaks again, but does not look at me.
“I was made by agreement between Eternals
 & some men. My purpose was to contact
the Beast, ask his help. The words you gave
to me were for him. A surrender, a truce,
that when you entered the Gate, you would
 be aided to pass on. The word you spoke
to me that night on the ship when I came
 to you, it was the Architect’s next instruction.
It’s why you & they are all here now. It’s
 why what happens next.”

We sit quiet watching celebrants return from
  the water, dry & dress. As more ready
themselves, there is a sense of waiting for next.
 “For me?” He nods. His face changed.

“What is my choice in this?” He starts.
 “It is all by your choice. You will decide
what will be.” “When?” He smiles, stands,
 offers his hand. It is soft, strong. He is
afraid of me, would kneel if I bid so.

We walk together among the crowds, further
 along the road, the evening coming on.
“What did the Beast say to you?” Silence.
 “I asked him what a hero is, this part
I was crafted to play.” Silence. “He said
 a hero understands fear in others’ hearts as well
as he does in his own.” I nod.

There are many shouts ahead, fields by
 the road filled with tents, bonfires,
dancers, musicians. Stars heavy & light
 in the sky. I keep close to this hero
who understands. He coaxes me laughing
 to dance, some of his old swagger returning.
I let myself undo all battered down
 within, lose to the fires, the music,
the stars heavy & light. I don’t know
 what the morrow will bring,
I wonder about the Architect, & my friends.
 Then his strong hand grasps my waist
& for a merciful while I don’t wonder.

******

Fasting Day

There is still a long way to go, & the day
 is for fasting. I walk beside the hero,
lightly trebling in time but keeping
 my steps about me. I am agreeable to this
in that I am not sure its purpose. The hero
 keeps my lips wet against the dry winter sun.

Trebling does not help me know better.
 And what I know does not explain.
As always when dismayed, I think of
 my friends during our best days in
the caves & tunnels of my childly dreams.
 They are important, simple & wise.

There were then among them masques
 when the caves & tunnels would be
entirely decorated, many instruments,  singing,
 costumes. I would wear the crown of
vines & pebbles, & preside as they wished.

One in particular, & very strange.
 I did not know which costume guised
which friend. There were not dressed as
 sprites or oaks, sunshine or red berries,
they dressed as men & women, impossibly
  strange for their creaturely forms.

They gathered around me, these beautiful
 forms of men & women, smiled me
in ways impossibly loving & sad both.
 They sang as though one braided voice:

“When the glaring lights have left
When the music has slowed to smoke
Where there is sniff of good blood & then no more
When touch brittles maybe to break
When best taste is old & cold, hurts

“The red bag, doorway back to dreams
The red bag, the path, come
The red bag, come, trust, come here.”

For a moment I see twice, then multiply, I am along
 this road away, I am with my friends
in this masque. I am waking in my bed
 in the Pensionne on a wet spring morning,
I am swimming with all I am to make the Island’s shores.

The hero catches me & leads me off the road.
 We sit in peaceful grass, the day
is warm but kind. He makes me drink
 water, looks around once, feeds me something
like a small handful of fruits & nuts from his bag.

“I am not ill. A day of fasting should not fell me like this.”
“I know. It’s not that. We’re getting closer.”
I take a leap. “The Red Bag.”
He nods. This borders his knowing.

A sudden good thought & I take from my pocket
 the few things I still carry. Knife, brush,
my totems.  One resembles my gnattering imp friend.
 I press it into his hand. “A gift.” His face
fears, retreats. I smile, the lush girlish smile
 he had longed to possess his own once.

“You’re the hero they guised you as. No longer
a masque.” He is quiet, helps me up.
We walk among the hierophants, initiates,
 musicians. “I would defend your life
from any & all.” I nod. I take his hand
 in bonding friendship. Such an act
is mine, not his, to do.

******

One, Many, None

“Neither death nor dream
are truly a remote land.”

Remember some things. It’s what I’ve returned
 to the Island to do. I’ve lived long times
at the Pensionne, tended its garden, visited
 with the White Tiger. When dreams came,
as long they hadn’t, they were of the Island,
 the Architect asking me to return, to find him
in the Tangled Gate. We argued.

“Why now?”
“You’re needed.”
“You wouldn’t let me when I lived there.”
“You’d been to the Gate many times, I knew this then.”
“What did you know?”
“I knew then, I know now, that the deepest truth of a human heart is its yearns. When you came to me, you were forbidden the Gate in your dreams, & I only allowed you maps to study. These years had to pass, time bound you to the Gate by absence & wish.”
“Now you bid my return.”
“Ask the White Tiger.”

I never find him but he is before me, head
 low sunk for an embrace. Always the garden,
I’ve never seen him elsewhere, or enter it,
 or exit.

He taught me in every way possible
 what tenders most need to know:
kindness most binds. I often resisted
 the far ends of his teachings, when kindness
seemed second to self-preservation, or revenge.
 He insisted me. Pressed me again & again.

Of my dreams he would only say there are many
 ways to heal, not just the tender’s way.
“I have to leave, don’t I?” Quiet growling
 deep in his throat. “Come with me.”
Silence. We would meet again in some way.
 His last embrace made that clear.

My travels since have brought me to this road,
 to an obscured understanding of what I am.
We approach a kind of temple now, it is
 hardly dawn. A temple, a cave, I cannot
tell. I find my way forward in the crowd
 is easy. A tall, feathered hierophant faces me.

There is silence. Does he expect words?
“I expect nothing. I wait your will.”
“Will I find my answers in there?”
He shakes his head, as thought I ask
 the color of mine own eyes.

He steps aside, & I walk toward
 the door leading in. Aside the door, a basin
of water, insisting a splash, a drink.
 I think of the Fountain back there, nod,
splash, drink. Enter, not knowing if I will return.

For a moment, blind blackness, nor the feel
 of ground underneath. I breathe slower,
do not cry out, something tests me.

I reach within, keep my balance, sniff twice.
 Images emerge in the darkness & hang
about me.

I see the books of patterns my father & I
 would study, deeper ways contrive my dance
& sing of the waking dreams. What was this book?
 I reach out to touch it, turn its pages,
there is something here I know,
 these are gnatterings rudely writ!
I touch a page, fragile as a wisp,
 & words like “there is no final thing
to know” lay upon my brow, clue & thread.

Follow the thread, half turn, & my brother,
 whom I loved so closely, finding me
disconsolate that I would not see my friends
 again, listening to me tell of their world,
their ways, never a denying word, just this:
 “You will limp now as I sometimes do.
But not always. You will find each other.”

Another half turn & my friend who claimed
 my father’s heart, made off. I see them
together in the chamber they alone used.
 Her straddling atop him, dark hair down,
hips moving impossibly slow, head reared
 back in snarl, in growl, teeth long
as she sucks him into her, deep into her,
 till nothing seems to remain, leaving
the room, nude, him recomposing in the
 blood & sweat falling from her as she
walks the empty corridor, him an old
 splayed man & her gone completely.

I press myself harder into this darkness,
 command to know, now I am small,
hardly made, singing to rags & flower vases
 because they sing to me, we are alike,
I try to recall earlier but it’s like
 I wasn’t born, never an infant. Created
like an animate statue, no couple loved me to be,
 the King not my father, nor his dead first
Queen my mother. I tire. What do I do here?

There are wisps of song, of a kind with my
 despairing, I reach toward them &
they settle on my outstretched finger like
 a hummingbird. Singing, “many kinds of time,
several binds of time, & how it looses to air!”
 I think of the Architect, & the singing molds
his face in the dark before me.

“You’ve come.”
“You’ve led.”

I feel soft pressings against my arms & shoulders.
 My friends! I can feel soft fur, a tiny
imp’s shape, a turtle not a turtle close.

“Do I finally learn what all of you are?”
“You created us. You do every time
 there is a new world.”
They crowd close to me, even the
 Architect is not far.
“Why don’t I remember?”
“You always say because failure is
an imperfect teacher, & hope
opens hands the best. We are your hints
of elsewhere, of others. All you will
allow yourself.”
“Is this world failure then? Do I lead
the procession out there to a new one
again?”
“There is a choice.”
“What choice?”
“Stay. Fill the hole in the heart of the world.
Bind the Gate here, to serve as foundation
to all.”
“Why haven’t I chosen this way before?”
“I convinced you,” says the Architect,
 with a deep heart’s whimper. “I believed
we could make a world without flaw.”

There is silence. I drift from my friends,
 wander memories that seem departing.
The sweet, high music of the Traveling Troubadour.
The dark fanciful music of the One Woods
 when all woke deep in the night &
cried out. My father the King on sleepless
 nights, his spyglass upon the black water.
The demon tugging him back, away from
 me, away from the Queen, willing
to sacrifice my brother, the snakebite
 in his heart never letting him rest
until our Island home abandoned,
 & all to war. Never seeing her slip
back into the sea as his boats raised
 their sails.

My blue bag. The many threads. I begin
 to fear. How do I know a flawless world
can’t be found? I twist in, & in, & in,
 feel myself starting to pull this world
closed upon itself, its possibilities, even
 as glints & glarings of a new one nose me near.

I fear. Words are leaving. This is what
 they do. No! (leaving) No! (leaving)
I try to cry out help me but it’s just a
 silent wordless grunt. No! (leaving)
Try again, the world shaking, the Beast &
 its mate together, comforting at this
once again known end. Failure. Pain.

No! (leaving) No! (leaving) N-! (leav-) N-!
 (gnatter) (N!) (gnatter) (N!) (gnatter gnatter!)
No! Help me, Architect! My friends! Beast!
 Hero! My father the King! Help me!
White tiger! Singer! Troubadour!
 Help me! (No!) (gnatter! gnatter!)
Help me, Queen! Help me, all!

A great roar, a wild pain, I feel blown
 all to light, cry soundlessly, & then
all silence. Silence. Then a voice,
 my own, & yet I listen:

“There is a door & now we pass through
There is a door. And now we pass through!”

The world spasms. The world shakes.
 The world holds. I reach into its maw
& fill it with everything I’ve ever learned,
 ever known. I bind myself to this world,
its flaws, its beauties. I push time
 back, smooth it like a thin blanket
along a long, long bare back. It is there
 for those not ready to reveal themselves
to the night & its many kinds of truths.

I push back, growing stronger, healing
 all I can, there is so much, & the world
will ever root up its song in part from
 its countless fractures, how they chorus.

My efforts tire me, & I feel my friends
 join me, gather at my back, help me
push, this world, keep this world,
 arriving, arriving now, arriving
somewhere to something, close, closer,
 more, & more, & a push, & now, good,
it’s . . . water. Sea water!

I am in mid-dive into the sea,
 my things tied about my waist,
bidding my friend goodbye with a wave,
 this time I see his face true,
it is the hero, my friend, smiling
 at me as once I had at him, thank you,
I love you thank you, & goodbye.

The shore is rocky, no beach where I half-
 collapse breathless. The sea lets me leave
but willing this time. I have bound myself.
 I have remembered some things &
bound myself this time. I will climb
 the rocks to the Dancing Grounds,
restore them for all I’ve learned,
 dance again on the girl’s legs I choose
to keep. I will let the Castle continue
 to return to green, the One Woods
hungering back its possession. The Tower,
 with a touch, shall return to tree,
& my Architect will have his day & night
 without end.

Finally, I will come to the Tangled Gate,
 that which I have loved best is here,
always has been, not left or right
 by the Fountain, but through,
no way in but through, I will step
 through the Fountain, its luring waters
swallowing me as I do, & come at last
 to the caves & tunnels of my friends,
leaving a part of me here, my childly dreams,
 they shall receive me as my beautiful
dear friends, feather, fur, gill, shell,
 happy sniffs all around, but a part
of me will draw a part of them away,
 away, deeper & deeper, ever toward &
arriving finally at the Red Bag. Finally
 at the Red Bag.

And here we will close what has too long
 been opened, the wound that was the loss
of our home, long ago, what brought us
 here, the remain of us, how we built
but could not forget. I was made to help
 us heal but healing is hereon, not
back there. We have done what we meant
 to do.

As many, as one, as none, each of us
 shuts eyes & imagines the conclusion
of the story on the other side of the
 Red Bag. Closes eyes, imagines, steps through.

One by one, till all, till I am left
 to finish. I watch myself dancing the
grounds my father the King built for me,
 songs of my childly dreams in these caves
& tunnels, had forever, the world’s best,
 secret balm. If these pages are found
& read, listen for the singing from the caves
 & tunnels. Join us in childly dreams.
Dance their messages through your daylight
 hours. Touch & teach others how, they are real.
Open hands, touch & teach others how,
 so close, smile, so close. They are real.

December 8, 2012
Cambridge, Massachusetts

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