Wednesday, August 17, 2011


At drift the hungry feather gets fed
 from any hyde from any mammal

At drift she gives flight to none
accept for the one she settles onto.
Atop a marrow that satiates and
feeds the wings of flight that carry two

Even if you are not- in me you are-
 my feather fans in make believe
A fire of smokeless incense
In me you are the marrow in my feather-
 We fan the flame 
      that brings the dog 
            that flies at night 
My feather on your flight.

This is what they yern for and write about and make mates superlative.

To the open stars a feather kite 
above vorticies that spring from nothing.
A no-thingness of weightlessness 
raising the heavy onyx colored shadow casting by house frames like
scattered abandoned sea shells below the bridge that carries us over

My feather for a a raft, a brief island cradling us top the upswelling rains
 where from our simultaneous clairaudience panics, " Fallow grounds!"

You reach into cardboard artifacts pulling out various nails and screws
screwing and nailing old window panes to an even older house frame
onto our raft, you say to me, "Feather of my house boat", and smile at me.

The waves swell, rise and cover, as usual. 
To navigate is by route- turning our faces to the stars we cast our lines into the reflection of the sun
and for a time ride the moon….
You will turn through my former forest 
and together we tell the ancient satellite residuals (meaning to document our eternality) 
in the alabaster sea from which they lust through
of our tunes on MP3's

Naked and now banked on your open shore 
where you intend new shoots 
Greening a grassy bank.
We rise and fall just like the coming and going of remembrance 
From which we crawl out towards-
                  crying at that pain of birthing ourselves  after the joy that comes with dying a little.

~Julie Koski (to me and my husband)

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