Rubedo

No doors have opened.
Crowns are holes, not walls.

Dreams of angels,
yet my vision bent
toward the city of insomnia.

Waking memories made of freedom,
of surrendering a hand
to another more delicate
than final words.

Into sleep,
searching still
for the one
who makes everywhere
feel like home.

A familiar face returned,
a past chord,
stunning,
but static.

The burn of ripeness,
each branch on different clocks.
I hung like a tasteless fig,
watching her be chosen
by a hand
that knew sweet.

I awoke with an aftertaste
knowing the omen
stripped one more thread
from the leash
that kept me off pace.

Morning.
The mirror leaned crooked
at the entrance of day.
I fixed its frame
so both shoulders stood straight.

Such a small adjustment
revealed a black spider
curled like lint
from the pocket of old pants.
It stretched its arms,
retreating
behind my reflection,
to weave in shadow
as all great spiders do.
So I let it be.

The day ended
where it began.
The moon clocks in
just after me.

In my sink,
a new companion.
A small ruby
with two white eyes.

The ladybug.

I unwound the window
like a vintage car crank,
took my chef’s knife,
and with the side that prefers words
over violence,
lifted her back to the world
that brought her in.

That night,
I swam into my sheets,
ready for new signs
of love’s arrival.

Memories returned,
Washington Square,
MOMA,
the city as familiar
as my elbow.

I checked what exhibits next week,
not as the boy I was,
but as one
no longer hiding
in tomorrow.

“Ladybug” by Joan Mitchell.

A coordinate set.
The web never fails me.

Morning again.
Two more rubies outside the window,
one screened in,
the other waiting to fly.

My hermit’s heart
sought to reunite them
beyond the veil.

So I did,
feeling for the seam
where the world opens,
letting my reflection
gather around my center
like warmth in winter.

A fiery blue lion nestled within,
carrying a message
timeless in simplicity.

Treasure settles only in the chest.

I carried it
like a compass rose of sterling
fastened on a snake chain.

The hornet’s sting
was medicine,
amoxicillin
for fearless love.

And now,
as evening turns,
the November moon
makes day of night,
and the nocturnal creatures
dance naked
as golden embers,
lighting the path
for what has always been.

Friday.

Enlightenment has tomorrows too.
The day begins
as sunlight shortens
in the youth of winter.

The magic of the rubies
becomes jaded.
Perhaps it is the amoxicillin.

One dangles outside my window,
reminding me
that the whispers
still breathe.

The day grows wise.
It is a nameless one,
filled with subtle reminders,
leaves falling,
their graceful mortality,
a painting
teaching the art of death,
how the best art
neither keeps
nor is sold,
like a dance
with someone
whose name lives in mystery.

Night moves
and I move with it.
Love’s apprentice
keeps no notebook.

Empty,
one enters
where there is no room.