Posts Tagged ‘communion’


after The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm by Wallace Stevens




The field was high and the sun was low

and the woman became the light; and the evening


slowed its pace perhaps to let the light remain.

The field was high and the sun was low.


She moved as though there were no night

worth fearing, as if the field could hold it all.


She leaned into the goldening, the way

the light itself leans softly on the world.


The night, a gentle friend, meandered quietly

across the land. There were no words


that could be said. The field was high

and the sun was lower. Slowly, hushed,


the wind a sigh, the field surrendered

all its lines. The darkness gathered


everything, the field, the woman, even

light, and made itself an offering.


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in the dark

you lose track

of any lines

that say

you are here

and the night

holds you

like a lover

with hands



and the stars

keep thousands

of secrets

and sometimes

they spill,

and if you have

a question,

it comes to meet you

whether or not

you’ve dared

to ask it.

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Anywhere at All




I find the silence

between your words

and set a cushion there

and close my eyes

and find stillness in that quiet

place in you

that speaks to that quiet

place in me.

Within a single conversation

we’ve shared communion

a thousand times—

is it any wonder we cry

when we say goodbye?


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One for Your Glass



in me a wine

I want to pour for you—

each sip made

from a thousand tiny bells

still waiting to ring


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on the shores of you,

finding a place through the overgrowth

where I can let fall everything

and slip in and


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One Whirled




travelling it together

this brush with forever—

galaxies in every step

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A Lesson in Metaphor




The stone, the couch,

the sink, the tea,

the broken glass,

the garden peas,


the knife, the cloud,

the thick red clay,

the ant, the weed,

the wheel, the cage,


the whale, the weed,

the scorpion’s sting—

we are the same

as everything.


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We should have each other to tea, huh? We should have each other with cream.

“Lovecats,” The Cure



Perhaps you don’t like tea.

Perhaps you don’t like cream.

It’s not what’s in the cup that matters,

though of course there’s the lovely

unfurling of leaves and the way

that the water accepts what

it’s been given. But no.

It’s not about the tea.

It’s the ritual of the pouring that matters.

It’s the sharing from a single pot

and the all that is said and

the all that is seen as we sip.

We can fill the pot with water.

We can fill the pot with wine.

All that really matters is

that we take the time to sit

together and slowly drink—

we, two separate beings who

are choosing at the same time

to accept the same thing into ourselves.

It’s a little bit like love.





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for Heartbeat, oh my god do I love you women



each time we sing

I forget everything

except the original joy

of being one small voice

in one great song

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the dark is    less dark

and the shapes    of the world

reveal again their    singular shapes—

I know they don’t really    lose their lines in the dark,

but I like to imagine    all those newly

illumined    silhouettes

have spent the night    blurred, puddled

into one    immense darkness,

forgetting    for a while

that they have    any lines

worth    preserving.

It is enough    to make a woman

wish that    the light

would never    come

if that is    what it takes

to make us    all remember

how arbitrary    they are,

these boundaries    we like

to call    ourselves.

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