I muse, as I tote three archival boxes labeled
Brady, Lettere from the Everest-library
where its mountaintop sages gather
in cardboard ranks.  A. Hales is Brady’s shelf-mate,
Alexander was called Doctor Irrefragibilis—
his “unbreakable” wisdom gracing
13th-century theology. I am aware how
breakable are my bones as I maneuver
these boxes down three flights of stone steps,
then down in the lift to my basement alcove.
Breathless with this supply of sapience,
I feel fragibile in more ways than one!  

Three more boxes of the 20th-century friar
I’m researching, Ignatius Charles Brady,
who loved Scotch and a good pipe,
who though fragile in body was un-
breakable in convictions about life and love,
about Assisi’s Saints and Love’s presence.
Toiling over cryptic texts in archaic script,
he distilled his own wisdom, dispensing
comfort and guidance to so many,
chronicled in the boxes I unpack, letter
by letter, handling with care—fragile—
in onion skin and carbon,
this witness to unbreakable truth.

Outstretched on the satin
velvet encrusted fainting couch,
a chaise from another time,
her long frame fit the dimensions and
allowed her to stretch
beyond imagination as she wrestled 
with time and its crazed trickery.

She gazed upward and focused
on the ornate filigree
flush mount light,
aged in chipped paint and dust.
She tried to pull from her memory
where she purchased the fixture,
but like it, her memory was aged
in chipped paint and dust.

Sometimes it was painful,
tiny splinters in
her hands.
Othertimes it was a relief,
the sound of dance steps
across a wood floor.
She settled for a cup of chai tea.

The sound is loud and piercing
I look outside to try to uncover
the reason for the racket
and it is a small bird screeching

I am sure there is a reason,
but am hoping that it is resolved soon
due to the noise stomping on my 
auditory and emotional nerves

Several cats from the nieghborhood,
including mine, circle the trunk of 
the tree where the bird is making
the horrible noise

Then, perhaps sensing danger
from the irritated feline predators,
the bird ceases it’s nervewracking song,
and takes flight, soaring away.

Her heart beats a cadence

That compels my body forward.

Through fire I’ll walk,

They say,

Love will make you do crazy things.

And so I know now that

Love songs have an origin.

That I find myself doting,

Dwelling,

On her every soft breath and whispered thought.

Indeed I’m mad,

Crazy,

Impossibly,

in love with you.

Pulling the bucket up seventeen days in a row
More than ever before,
I wonder if I have reached the limit
Of my creative well.
Surprised I didn’t run out sooner.

She awoke overnight
under full moonlight.
I saw her popped
pinkness at breakfast. 

Bursting fullness
top a thin green stalk
and bends it sideways.
She greets the sun.

Seven closed buds—
her restrained promise
wait in her scent 
for their turn to please.

Together for years
already, they don’t expect 
magic. But when they 
say their vows, love rises up
& grabs us all by the throat. 

That place where thoughts & ideas penetrate   theories develop   implementation set      instructions given   acquiescence prevails   submission overtakes   takes over   power & release   excitement   fruition   yes, please   do me do me do me   becomes   tell me tell me tell me   I deep listen

Chipper old women and giggling,