Poetry

If you materialize this thing, which is a lamp, which is a cup,     as practice. If you light it, if you drink from it. Although the long day is still ahead, you may behave in the dark as you do in the dark. The light won’t find you out, it will make room, it…

Then we want to drown or sing To skip ahead as if lost in the past When I say we I mean everything all at once When I say forever Each of us counts our desires And the desire to gather Fills our hearts We create the simplest words We live alone in absolute silence…

I cannot tell you the whole story because the whole story will not fit in my mouth. I have always had a small mouth, small tongue, tiny lungs. If I were to try to tell the whole story, I might expire. All over you, and you in your best black robes. It’s like trying to…

And now they range beneath wheatfields in unmanned chambers out of range. They point themselves at celestial targets; today they are rediscovering snow. Perhaps they whispered unto you the sickness that cut a breast from your breast; possible. Love’s surgeon had it in for you, he spread you at the chancel and unmasked. Then hauled…

Dream of the bitter greenish flesh of a tiny orange tree we grew upstairs in our bow window: I am eight or nine. In life, I hoped the flesh would end up sweet the way the fist-sized oranges in grocery bags turn sweet, the way bought fruit does almost always. But in my dream I…

Poor Lorca, what a sissy, his whole life he knew this was coming and still he looks like an idiot, suddenly he stops defanging the piano in his underwear and gets all morbid, embarrassing the diplomats. He asks his parents for more money for a silver pant leg, wristwatches to fill a fishbowl, and then…

So I went out into the nervous system of the air— Bearing beneath my lettrist overcoat my village The monumental city long ago breathed in And held                 Went out into the signal and static— Rivermutter steeplebell and traffic—net of noise Knotted by sirens                               Into the brutal red dream Of the collective—humming there behind…

—odor of hot stone, like a sibyl          ironing, is it not so, her duns and indigos                 . . .          odor of love         sea ammonia —a licknut leaf diving out after boyish pleasures,          as Apollo hung out       whole days with Hyacinthus—jack-juice outlaws:          one of them the green sometimes seen in…