ῠ̔φαίνω, wæf, ऊर्णवाभि

there is a tangle
of threads that must be teased out
to weave my way home


--
huphaínō, wæf, ūrṇavābhi: weave, woven, weaver (Greek, Old English, Sanskrit)

On weaving and sewing as metaphors for ancient Greek verbal arts - Gregory Nagy

bite

Where your mouth has touched,
I burn. Each kiss, a flaring
ember in my skin.

summary

At the very end,
a stubborn, lovely flower
bares its head, holds tight.

exhaust

I have an empty
tin can for a mind, through which
the wind rises, scours

oatmeal-colored cell-
stuff from the bony walls, screams
in suffering ears

its manifesto.
I dare not resist.  No good
can come of retreat.

truisms

A flower of silk,
well-kept, will never wither.
Well-watered, must fade.

avarice

I want a snowdrift
in which to keep you, falling
at my feet, abject--

or just you, writing
ghost stories at the window
in winter.  The cold

can't win out over
the warmth of words, slipping through
interlaced fingers

under a blanket
of snow in muted colors,
this endless feeling.

breath

Panic has no name
in the brightness of the day.
It just lives inside.

Jack

Scrape it carefully,
this orb of autumn's dreaming,
carved face, mirrored mask.

waning

The moon rides out on
cloudy trails, its gleaming back
a lucent puzzle.

time travel

I travel through time
only one way, facing front.
Don't leave me behind.

studious

The anxiety

expands, a balloon swelling

to consume each day.

but that was a long time ago

the singing crickets
and bitter scent of autumn
conspire to break me.

mob rule

shake me to the core.
words beaten into weapons
jump into the crowd.

your fire sparks more,
a resolution of truth
lodged in every heart

that returns, now pressed
into remembrance, into
the blazing future.

fine dining

"Why are you so slow?"
The insolent question cuts
faster than I can.

Still, I slice, precise.
Would you have it done quickly?
Or have it done right?

Give me time, I think
fiercely, to get up to speed.
Or do it yourself.

overwhelmed

rushing in my head
past an alert in orange,
a portrait in greys.

bad habits

Forget greeting dusk.
I have exchanged sleep and time
to hide from this day.

ready

dim shades, clacking quick
against the hot day, speak in
bones, rattle and click.

"Hic ego qui iaceo tenerorum lusor amorum..."

Echo, reflect me
in the still pool of your song--
I'll swear to linger.

That bright melody
calling me from cliffs to brook
combines trap and key.

Higashiyama

Cicadas buzzing,
we rode our bikes up that path
against all endings.

cyborg shift

copper-wire curls
this deep ocean of feeling
I am no human.