Nothing is and nothing in itself is a mountain. I know nothing except certain brief anecdotes: The wall has bricks. The Navy has cigarettes. The wide world is an old horizon. The chair is flat and without boundaries. There is no reason to call it a chair. But we do, and you know it is…
Three inch caramel-colored field slug on its back, vibrating by the scraps of a big Amanita Muscaria It has eaten more than its size and now its true size in visionary trance makes me sad of my size — I can never eat enough of a higher order to trick the interior leper to the…
Bound in my car, parallelograms of light shifting in front of me, red & white, darkness coming on like a sock, the ankle of the day — I notice two skaters out on the perilous river where the ice wrinkles like agony on a face in shock — (daring, or indifferent? Their hockey…
In a dream to wander to some place where may be heard the complaints of all the miserable on earth. Hawthorne, The American Notebooks 1. To the Poets Let let let let be to the poets praise,…
The beginning was the dream, and the voice was a turban gourd. A strum. What are we hiding? Our new bodies born underground with pearls of old corn? Our dry husks on the winter-hard ground/ where is the moment between wet rotting and ashy…
”It comes back to me.” We say that about remembering, as if from longer ago than we knew we had touch with, from before we were born and in someone else’s life, “An apple fell in the night and a wagon stopped.” We were asleep then and heard neither. She herself was asleep. There had…
I am sending my son an emergency survival kit: flares to light up wild mountainous terrain to searches in planes; inscrutably furled space blanket, tested against exposure at Everest by recent explorers; small high-calorie ration to sustain one really strayed to the edge of the world. I include a…
Self-stranded, in a raw strength Not untested but contained, cornered, He held himself at the poised heat Of that whitening hour when wind stirs, When it licks at his high ledge, laying tribute To the mute opening with a mild motion, Sighing itself through seeds and sweet herbs. For then, as a thirst joined at…
Bassoon and pizzicato, Franz Joseph Haydn’s “Clock”, horses at full run. Adagio; Presto; more an ending to a year than a beginning of a symphony. A flute — the big time piece becomes a tiny musical clock, a gift, a minuet for Prince Esterhazy in 1793. The finale is a double fugue. The first three…
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