Your six kids search for you all over Yakima. We don't find you in the corner bar, the lights low, your spirits high, sipping one last brandy. We don't find you sitting on a bench, shoulders stooped, waiting for the last bus home. We find you miles from town, lost, gazing at spring apple trees…
Dawning, but for whom? He lies unconscious, broken by the surf of sleep, marbled skin and bluish lips, green anisocorion. A bond of godhead almost extinguished with the arriving blood-red dawn. Who now can conjure feeling for someone permeated by dark and light of spent passion, whose shrivelled lips remind one of worn fruit? Let…
The first has a town for a setting, with a tower and a street with trees, and in their shade farmers' wives selling the fruit of their labors and the handiwork of their daughters. The men are sitting under the trellis of the Cheval Blanc or in the Café du Soleil and the talk is…
She dreams redly of ashes and is hurrying, hurrying.
His wife folds her death bed—the waft of the sheets flutters through her lips. His name shifts on her face light as sun. Her snow-white mind is winter. This winter he gave himself absence. In the half- empty bed he knows his body. He whispers, “Life of the past.” He takes her to the north…
—C. G. Jung on archetypal dream imagery paradise gave me these legs for spinning weep and pray and be joyful paradise gave me these legs to weep and pray and be joyful when I have fixed each corner p l i é relevé spin I start the silky spokes p l i é relevé…
Her hand waves to dispel illusions. Insensitive to photons of light she doesn't stir for the clink of skeletons diving through. . . This one, the special one, proved the existence of sublimation aging on the sea-rocks, and there is no glimmer, no star-flash comparable to his lips, his intangible touch.
The water on the lake is still as love become permanent desire, like oil. The fields for hundreds of years fields of grass, potatoes, sugarbeets or wheat, are a graveyard where the stones look southward in a soft curve and the country road is a suburban street. Here my father lies dead by his own…
The night my brother died my father wrenched his own cracked, yellow molars from his mouth and went crashing like a wounded deer over the ridge and down, five miles through the brush, into Soda Canyon where the cops found him wandering, spent, around the burnt-out dance hall and brought him home. Bandaging his brush…
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