this here

this here
is where i lose
my tongue:

this circling
this searching
this falling through, this always i.

of course:
weightless; alive; here;
there are always
various kinds of peace.

(where? peace lives in
freshly revisited poems;
monday afternoon sex;
songs that feel like flying;
long and lovely journeys;
gold shadows of dusk)

but always, there is
this here: this lonesome
revival, this returning, this
fog, these lonesome smokes

the fear of falling
this where/ more than here

this politics of form. this ache and sun.
this time that sits in my hands like air
and the hollows i carve in my throat
and the dreams i scratch in the sky
and the searching, the always i