Poetry

Epistle for the Cicadas

Did I not, from larva, grow a shell, then crawl from it, skinless, until like the cicada I left my theologies and causes clasped to trees — so why have my maps and chronicles brought me again to a green lathe? Do I still wear the same threaded syntax? My eyes still turn from blue…

The History of Poetry

Once the world was waiting for a song when along came this. Some said it was a joke funny ha-ha but at the end too lachrymose to last. Others that it was writ holier than thou and should be catechized, then set to turgid dirges, wept over with gnashed fang, wrung palm. The ancient declaimed…

A Stillness

From here you can see the herds come down from the mountain Like loose rock they pile up at the river Then break loose The first one Then the others Whole herds plunge through the water You can see the men gathered in the pass with their spears to watch Already they are waiting thousands…

What To Do

You are far away, Space dipping and swaying in time, And I have something to say But do not know just how. If I could speak in light (Eight and a half minutes from sun to earth) I would, words on solar wind, Lighting up the polar sky, Curtains curving, Rivers of noun and verb….

We Never Close

There is no substitute for mind. You cannot wash it down, or off. It works if you are dumb or blind, Believes enough is not enough. Mind decides and mind reneges, Bares its designs in secret roots; Drinks nothing up, yet leaves the dregs, Tilts back its hat and draws, and shoots. Fingers your navel,…