Taller than a manpitched from the earthgarbled needleblackened nowits volute screedbee- and beetle-riddenup and down betweenthe un-sprung buds, the wildefficient feel ofsmockedrabbit-skinnedexplosionspoised so slowlyon its undertakingthat it was so longbeing truethe cold and the craftlesswas not craftspotting the nichesthe leaves thexanthene core.
Make your deadness real to me now.Why should you be always so realand so near to me? I should know that you don’t know meanymore. In every sunI close my eyes and see you everywhere inside me. What does deadmean? Are there shadesof, different ways of being dead? Deadwith the damp smell of lichen, deadreally…
Your body—not disappeared into the grave but into blizzarding swan-colored lines of lace—holding something like your shape. And just like flesh you open, absorbingeach stray iridescence, each veil of updraft, upswirl, white noon scattering your edges, you’resomething like a dress I can’t put on. I am buildingyour body, building a mind to move throughevery curve…
My dead mother is more beautifulthan yours. My dead mother will always be more beautifulthan yours. Even her deadnessis more beautiful.
and everyone was there to watch youdie. We offered youpopsicles, ice, a sponge we’d dab on yourlips. We crowded you,stroked your legs, your hair, tried to keep youkempt without hurting, disturbing you, prodding youuntil your eyes, when they opened, couldn’thold us. We hated that, hated yourstillness, your days of stillness, noteating, not speaking, and we…
Of your things now, onemore of the things that survived you. I wear your long gray herringbone coat intolong gray days, returning alwaysto your other objects: drawers of good silverware, spices, framed madonnas who look at me, wondering what I have done. When you said you were afraid you were going to die,I said Everyone…
Landscape of small saints with champagne. Landscapewith island out window with window as large as the houseand its shadow Landscape of doors and their doorwaysLandscape of the hallway that runs between themjoining one outside to the other. Landscape of child in doorway smiling and that of the faceswatching the child, thinking every face is a landscape. Her first show was in…
Landscape of umbrellas flying over Brussels, itself the shadow;somewhere glass sparkles in the background, pear treesin the background, flower Landscape through two glasses of water the Rhine bordered by treesslightly therefore flowing green the boats thus moving through two layers—water glass and river— the bells strung betweenthat follow in slight distance sketched on a surface that flees. Boats at anchor in…
You said both hermit and hermetic in the same sentence and I saidthat if you are receptive then you don’t need to be an artist. I have hada hermetic life in poetry and in the sanctity of a sacred love, in onesense but not in another. You said the word demarcation and I wasreassured wholly…
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