Steve Kirchhoff Page 2

Of this quicksand-life, into which
The passion for identity throws a tiny thread of hope?

I love the barren landscapes of my home.
They shiver in a permanent frost of isolation
And let me believe in what is lost.
The wind, transparent sheet, carries strange freight
Across the land, of the after-lives of gods
Who can't stop caring for us, though they know they      should.
Matter is victory over boredom, and death
Proves everything's required when we say, I love.
What is brought to life cannot outlive the loving breath That urged it. And that part which breathes life, then      breathes death,
Until a form comes, and it freezes, and speaks
A wordlessness that you, and only you, will
     understand . . .

Where Longing Goes

A mile above what you left behind -
You don't even look to see -
Places are just gray smudges
And roads are black hairs, while
The chrome creeks curve uselessly . . .

You don't see it, but the feeling
Of a world, this world in this time,
With dead mothers, the terror
Of our dreams returned,
And gardens burning in surreal colors
Invades you, chokes your breath.

Again you're little in a lap,
Sobbing about the lost kingdom.
The marrow of your aching is back,