It is a simple spell—
fire to smoke, smoke to breath
breath to blood, blood to flesh—
so the flame is kept
so the branch is burning.
It is a common thread—
the wrong word is used or
the word is used wrong
it goes on and on so long
the word becomes right.
Comes a time the star is
your compass, your direction
the sacred oath of sunset.
Comes a time the stone
no longer can bear the press
your blessing carries in your hands,
your fingers so craved and kissed.
A match struck becomes a light,
the light an anchor in
the ocean of all this night.
Washed away by all this water
swept away by wave and sea,
no skiff, no ship, no lifesaver
tossed upon the violence of these words
the metaphor always wanting more
everything another thing, the things
in between, magic and machine
my heart, my lips, the fire
not the name as no thing is
the name save for the saying.
So I dream you like I dream
the cigar I do not have, my wish
another direction, this poem
named near enough, the invocation
a voice in the dark in black and white.
The body keeps no secrets,
words loosed into the wind at night.
The hurricane becomes the beating of
a butterfly’s wings, the butterfly the poet,
the poet the dream, the dream your name.