Poetry

Old French Fables

1. A loutish lummox lay a-dozing, Flat on his face, his arse exposing Unto the sun, with cheeks spread wide; When lo! a beetle crawled inside The grandly gaping aperture. Needless to say, the brutish boor Awoke at once, in pain, and hied him Straight to the doctor, who, to chide him Told him he…

Mahler

It is Because I am Obsessed with This thing. . . . It overtakes me. Do I conjure it Out of space, Scratching its Sound on paper In the tilted gazebo? I only know I Do hear it — there. I am brushed by The precise flit Of its shadow, Enervated by Each visitation. Like…

Poem on a Surface

We trace ourselves in order to omit the tracery tense unfolding a flesh offering a limit We travel the ellipse of ourselves each inhabited One inside the other limitless warm surface & not wanting knowing the limit tracing the arrival We come together One orb One & One We fold together unfolding rhythm of our…

Upon Going Into Prison

Warders in familiar uniforms, peaked caps, and badges– greying family men–tag and number these articles out of the prisoner’s hand-sewn, pig-skin bag: Two sweaters of hanks and hanks of hair, hand- spun and knitted–blonde into black, red into brown– völkische patterns; three pearl-grey chemises with tongue-like ties; one austere silk foulard from Paris, the couturier…

In the Endless

After Verlaine In the endless anxieties of the plain the uncertain snow shines as sand. Of copper is the sky, without one light. One would believe any moon, seen living and dying. As some storm clouds hover infirm and grey, the oaks of close-lying forests are among the vapours. Of copper is the sky, without…