Queen Marie: If one were to divide people in two categories, dreamers and realists, I would definitely count myself among the former. All my life I dreamed of an ideal house, which I chased with the passion of a man with a parched throat desperate to quench his thirst. I knew, of course, that there is no such thing as a “dream house,” I knew that it was merely a Fata Morgana, yet it was my life’s quest, and now that I can look at my life with the dispassionate eye of the one who’s lived it, I understand that this desire belonged to Maria-the-Artist.

There are ten sets
of poem chairs
at the Palais-Royal,
separate, together,
love seats
waiting for 
conversations,

These socks were woven by someone
fallen out of love with poetry and in 

with a commune of alpacas. 

The beautiful thing you did
that no one knows about
or forgot
or no one cares for--
it’s there always: 
light, grainy light--

I built godless cathedrals out of it,
upside-down Chinese pavilions, 
sleigh-bell heavens, stained-glass hells,
tearing, folding orchestral sound like origami.

Blessed olive tree
spirit of land, water and sand
tree strong and free
you know the secret 
the way to the light
the infinite sky
of the raising full moon

In front of me, the sea. I contemplate the Horizon behind the horizon, where waves and ether marry. I’m a grain of sand in an ellipsis, a sun shard mingled with stardust haloing the still bare strand.

no beginnings
only courageous leaps
into the continuous flow of things

no before to glorify
in a false jewel-box darkness
where they hold their breath
bad habits and head packed full
evasively docile