Luke Grecki
The same songs litter the horizon.
People chase fragments of light
like cats, not knowing their origin.
Winter is turning back now,
running scared after having seen
it’s thin shadow.
I am thawing into soil,
grass growing from my ears.
My body is not foreign
to sun or moon,
it is the sum of a sprawling calculation
that is more a bramble than
a glass bead.
Even when the hallway doors unlock
rooms filled with wildflowers
I can still smell death.
The dishes are dirty.
The cats are hungry.
There are ten thousand things to meet.
Where is the man who will put his suitcase down?
Where are the logs to kindle fire tonight?
The winds blow strong on Christmas Eve.
I feel we are circling something,
a cavernous moment
put to organ music.
The cats stand in the dimming light,
breathing little breaths,
and everything is still
for one simmering moment.
Then the dust blows in,
and my eyes go dark.
Breathe deep of
this wilting world,
watch as death becomes ripe
in the eyes of the living.
The corners pulse with change
as our months disappear into seasons,
as we forget our truths
in the ocean waves.
To repeat ourselves
is our curse and our joy,
to grow wheat again
where wheat has died,
to cry where tears have fallen,
to open doors heavy with memory.
Start again,
kiss your shadow
as the sun rises like grass.
When night comes like lightning
I watch until it pools like rain.
I listen while it
flows in the cracks,
filtering through the soil
and seeping into bedrock.
The darkness is complete
when my mind turns black,
muted under dark water.
I let the dark climb like ivy
up the walls of my being,
the night flora feeding
on a growing silence.
Awake, I wonder.
How many species live
in the caverns of the heart?