Crossing

I

Workdays you tiptoed the high wireand steep cliff ledge wearing blue twilland a bright orange vest,each crosswalk a sea, a compass,a cargo of children.Still, Earth passed you bywith time pieces you strappedto each wrist for trips to California,circling blocks and returning home.

"Something has fallen out of my head,"you said, just weeks beforeKatrina made bones of the cityand broke the hand of Jesus.When Rita came exhalingI begged you to leave,but you stayedliving in no-man's-land,half-beast, half-child.

You resisted my tearing downthe great wall you built of ants,souring pots and junk mail.One morning I pulled a drawerand found your pistol,old vials of blue pillsand years of unspent cash.

II

Stars drownin the black drone of waves.

                You cross.            You lie down        with newborn fields            in cold light        and scented voices,        a titter and a word        short of laughter.      Hands lock in a mudra.            We feed you.

Old vessel, sweet daemon,

        do we cage you crib-like    to protect you from yourself?      Or is it the delicate crystal            within that we fear?