my contract with light

tell me which of the stars
have seared holes through all of my things—
or is it just the same quantum of light
returning again and again
now demanding the only bowl I have left

I confess in a whisper it is too late
thousands of years have already claimed it
white shards entwined by roots
that refuse to surrender
clinging black soil

but light is incessant
immutable
and wants everything back

apparitions

all the ukulele players
appearing out of fog
they walk by with their black cases
maybe forty men with beards
they vanish the same way

a violinist in a white dress
shining on the stage
she slides her bow and plays
back and forth
and back and forth

she's young enough
to be her daughter
and maybe not
a mathematician
but it doesn't matter
we're just dancing in a haze

what then?

shall the fissures of Earth actually win?
shall new continents form without our knowing?
how many dreams have already spilled from shaking hands?
and where do these dreams go,
washed away by rain
rattled into crevices by thunder
planted to be re-born as apples?
maybe all gardens are just the first garden
and the creme flesh of woman
shall once again have no fear of scales.
I cannot imagine a forest without rain,
life that doesn't feed off those that came before.
which falling star can claim to be an angel
or a bluebird with a broken wing?
don't cats already know each sparrow is numbered?
where is the factory of birds?
which politician could tell me?
I would vote for her
even if all the other candidates were women
just as clever.

Can any of this be denied?

Your very flesh
lying against the spillage of day
sky refusing light
promise of apricot--
a blush of red
against some yellow
never again to taste
pressed between lips
breaking taut skin
perfected edge
of worn down teeth.
They tell how kernels will settle
into August earth
long before autumn makes its claim.
If you do not believe in time
still it lays its reach of days
sings its strained melody.
Breathe its soft air
open your hungered mouth
to the nectar of lost fruit
apricots lifted into sky
beyond time's tale of centuries.
Who counts all these useless years? 
Why do so many demand them back
as if they could be bothered
for one last meal of love,
another's soft skin
pressed against your naked flesh,
can you not be warmed in any other way?

for those now dead

between a native's stone found in fields my father plowed
and a broken bough from a pine on a hill I climbed as a boy
I grind this fragrance from sprigs of lavender my mother planted
red stalks of rhubarb dug from her yard--
these I grow for pie