Friday, January 2, 2009


Sunset reflecting
like spilled cider
on the windows



I stand
in the grove of December
in the garden of the end of the year
and watch you climb down
from your half-moon perch

The journey spins
in sorrow and serendipity
toward winter horizons
toward the scent of firs
and the blue door of the north

You are
the shape of my sleep
my right eye
my electric pulse
moon-man autumn-elf
bound for ice and stars
black sky native of the
infinities of my mind

I wear your cloak
your void hair
but hear only dour wind
tugging at my sleeves

December's longing
on black snow nights
pulls at the heart's hesitation

This is what made you
jump down from the moon



A visitor at the door
speaks of dreaming and doubles
Rain alters the world

What February doesn't arrive
in a liquid river
of shimmering alien journeys?
I sit and chat with friends
knowing that half my mind
has run off again
living lives I can't remember

I grasp at visions
thinking they will make me whole

The heat of stars
brings a brief emotion
of something like love
But shadows shiver my soul
as if it was always
made of that familiar dark energy

I am warm only when
I am human
When I am Other
I am so much morewaking
from a long
dead sleep



In waves of night
the sea swims with planets
and schools of moons
Finned rockets slide through the murk

Impossible void-maids
comb their nebulae hair



jars filled with night air
line the vampyre's hearth

Wendy Rathbone

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