24 Hours

On Venus, a day equates
to one hundred sixteen
and three quarters of our own

sunrise to sunrise,
where a world
is conceived: at the threshold

your hand moves forward
to pull up the blinds,
the dust motes hang

without intention of settling —
an orchid waits expectant
for the light
but your hand is still yet

to reach up
but the dust will never fall,
except when you turn away or sleep

or find a friend in a dream
has not only a day but a decade
gone by like rain at dawn

you are not sure what you will find
in the mirror —
a night is long when the drawers
are full and the pages are blank

soon the church bells chime
from down the street
the way each Sunday blinks back fear
and blinks again so that

next week appears
fresh as de ja vu
as you open the door to look at the sky —
looks the same as thirty-two

years ago when you were born,
when you got here from
someplace else,

where a day
knows no real end
and has been forever beginning

A mother recovers

To heal, to make whole.
Thus, the blank space
between sounds.

Thus, a rift in tectonic plates.

The hands which beckon or beg
or beat, discovering
a source of light.

A bone knows which way to grow,
underneath all those sinews.

As in a call to prayer,
an invitation to come in
from the world.

As in being bare,
not brave or unbound,
seeking comfort in the small
justices of television plotlines.

The fluids of our lives
come to our rescue.

We press down on the sutures
while children swan dive
into this arena,

and our words become
intentions intercepted

no dividing was ever
done so gracefully


Swimmer’s feet kick off from
rock’s end into new shallows

in-between of suspension
heart buoyed up by succession
of events as lived in our 30s

a new clarity happens
with each turn of calendar,
as with erosion, distillation,

settling of silt onto river
beds and ocean floors

I wade with purpose until
I can only float

Swimmer’s body leans into water

lies down onto horizon
to glimpse the depths of fish