Eyelashes did their job: they lengthened the afternoon, like a dress hem. Then that night the hem began to rise, in stages revealing scenes from my shameful life. Those calves up which the hem reproachfully rasped, catching, lingering over the ugh pictures did belong to a woman or were they mine— I hid my eyes….
An hour before sunrise, The moon low in the East, Soon it will pass the sun. The Morning Star hangs like a Lamp, beside the crescent, Above the greying horizon. The air warm, perfumed, An unseasonably warm, Rainy Autumn, nevertheless The leaves turn color, contour By contour down the mountains. I watch the wavering, Coiling…
Perched on each others tongues To fly Where now are the angels In what pursuit plunged vaporously Who late will sniff your crotch for eternity The wind is rising The diamond that divides the faces of a wound The surface of our planet should be waxed To make the wind go faster Than the windmills…
Leaving here, I slip out the gates of the palace garden as autumn stuns the trees with remembrance and makes them come around again like a memory of dervish flutes. In my mind I hear the word perfect. My feet touch down into cool…
On each shoulder I bear a jar with each its angel in formaldehyde I wish to preserve my loves You say No let them go fly way Away and when they come back…
Watch out for the lady riding sidesaddle! On foot in the foreign gorse, we see the woman’s private ride thicken her with territory; her figure is a jowl of land rising against the sky. If she comes near, we dread she’ll ignore us. She canters from the horizon pasted to a rocking horse, eyes hidden…
“What forgotten reverie, what initiation it may be, separated wisdom from the monastery and, creating Merlin, joined it to passion?” Yeats, A Vision She pulls the sheet of this dance across me then runs, staking the corners far out at sea. * * * O I’m lucky got a car that starts almost everyday tho I…
He made a crude wooden clock that threw him out of bed, a strong-armed Gabriel, he called it. such genius watched the new bone carriages tottering down their chutes, the magical brooms kicking their heels spreading around the world, until one flipped and the file sailed from his hand into the sclera. for months…
In the orchards we would take A rolled-up newspaper and light it, And shove this torch into a wasps’ nest. In a moment the hive Would be thick with dead wasps. Only one or two flying out of the fire. * * * Now, when I walk in the shade of these trees, I know they…
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