How Can Your Hand, So Little

How did you get the stars

which

yesterday hung-up

in a loose night sky,

reclusive,                remote,                removed,

today

to join

in constellations?

How did you get the humid wind

that last night

carried only mosquitoes

to leave its rain outdoors

and breeze its way

past curtains and cradle

just to butterfly

your skin with kisses?

How can your body,

so tiny,

fill up

so much of our house?

And with muscles too weak

to hold up your own head

make an ocean-liner wake

I will follow

the rest of my life?

How can your hand,

so little,

hold

so much

of me?

(written 9/10/97, for my daughter, Kaia)

Time Carnivorous

Time carnivorous never ceases licking lips,

Biting away at me

it rips

me off

bit by bit,

thought by thought,

in chore and bore.

Tomorrow slithers by,

drooling over today’s mistakes,

gorging on yesterday’s ideals.

Feeding in frenzy

sucking sweet seconds

milking my marrow.

If I don’t watch it,

it’ll gut me.

If I do,

it’ll drain me.

Now

I’m telling time:

“Go swallow your own tail

and get off mine!”

Once and for all,

As far as time goes,

one thing

(alone)

I know:

when it comes to my heart,

the clock stops here.