I Am Not a Poet

the moon is hidden by that tree
where the hummingbirds fly home

I return to "her bloodstained hair"
(a refrain that lives with no purpose)
and the city - the city - the boundless tiny city
where I have lived so little and dreamed so much

words die in my mouth

the heart of a woman is no bigger than
the heart of another creature -
its edges hurdle the sky

and I am always turning back
to the deathless mute need in my fingers
to say
to breathe there
(here)

what?

what more?

that dream, the hidden moon,
the crayon that traces on into the world
into the white space of our fondest nightmares

along the way are creatures great and terrible
with deathless hearts
and bloodstained hair
and tongues that flap on
like hard-hung sheets against a prairie wind

and chilly knowledge
of junkyards undiscovered