Friday, September 19, 2014

Postscript


A word, how they loved
the beauty of her broken shell,
and how she died alone,
written on a wall.



Thursday, September 18, 2014

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Canvas 430



Canvas 430

September 17, 2014




Canvas 429



Canvas 429

September 17, 2014




Canvas 428



Canvas 428

September 17, 2014




Jude the obscure


By an open window in the dark with fall coming on,
it comes to you that buildings age from prose into poetry,
and little boys and girls from poetry into prose;
then, everything is quietly reversed;
poetry is sage and worth;
prose, a kiss at first;
errant thought,
a word.

By an open window in the light,
Jude is less obscure,
and you are
gone.

What better curse,
than the sacred verse of being
wrong?



Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Breathless


How objects in our view
conspire to seem what we think they are,
and how we conspire to believe
what we see is true,
even as it takes
our breath
away.



Monday, September 15, 2014

As reason might surrender


The kindness of the changing seasons,
the light and mist and blush, and as much
to touch as reason might surrender
such brave and frail claim,
that we will change,
ourselves.



Sunday, September 14, 2014

Or is it


Forests, oceans, and wars on a sphere
hung in space. Symphonies and bridges. Stars,
like moths to a flame. Or is it
your face?



Friday, September 12, 2014

Canvas 426



Canvas 426

September 12, 2014




A long minute


It’s a long minute, a spider hanging by her thread;
and in that minute, limb to limb a shadow spreads like a blue canyon;
death cannot describe it, motionless as it is,
though a held breath might,
when she once
descends.



Thursday, September 11, 2014

Rattlesnake


Not quite light and already the breeze is up,
like a rattlesnake bite on the east side of your carcass
moving west, and the rest of the night is down
a squirrel hole with no soul to tell
but the bees buzzing after it,
right to the bottom
of the world.

Had a dream like that once;
turned out war had been declared
and all the boys had gone in to enlist;
rattlesnake-bit, I stayed home to look at my fist
and refused to raise it — had seen enough,
if you get my drift.

Rattlesnake, take me home.
Rattlesnake, bake my bones in the blue light.

For a minute yet, my west won’t know
what your east has done,
but you can bet
that’s long
enough.



Wednesday, September 10, 2014

The greeting


Now the greeting is this,
that each in our eyes beholds
other bright fragments
of ourselves come
to love —

street angels turn butterflies,
grow wilderness-wise,
shine by elemental
strength —

one dream, one language,
one common root —

enough to make a moon rise,
and that is the truth.



Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Canvas 425



Canvas 425

September 9, 2014




Kind of slippy-slopey


Kind of slippy-slopey, like you have too many feet
for your worn-out shoes, and stickery-thorns in each big toe,
and when the wind comes up, and the rain sets in, down you go, friend,
down you go, muddy-hen with a crooked claw, where there ain’t no hope
and there ain’t no law, but the hand in the cloud and a smile so odd
it might be God, so let the old man in or we’ll all go sane,
and we cain’t tell where the hell we’ve been —
yep, that’s right, friend,
I said rain.



Monday, September 8, 2014

Hat-rack song


Hat-rack in the corner by the basket-chair,
way high up in the mountain air,
one step more and you’re almost there,
hello, clouds, good-bye, fear.



Sunday, September 7, 2014

There is a story


There is a story in the man with his back to the fire,
and the fresh cigarette between the second and third fingers
of his right hand is part of his hypnotic effect;

when he goes up the chimney and back,
the story turns black;

this is the past;

the cigarette to his lips,
the smoke through his nose,
the bright-tragic eyes;

and I wonder what’s painted up there on the chimney’s insides,
what starry nights and streets lined with huts,
what flowers in the hair, what girls
by the well.

The story runs low; there’s ash on the bricks.
He swallows us all, like Charybdis.
I grow up like this.

The fire spits at the screen.
The fire spits, half-dreamed, dreams.