moving slowly
in the summer of
our agony.
The first made
memory more
vivid
than the marks
in wood no
deeper excavated
The easy mood,
followed the grain
drank mead
follow the swallow
of reeds moving
limpid from
their stems, their
roots beneath
them. Agrestic
motions, fade
and grow;
flow the way the oceans flow.
Dark night felt
deeper after fire,
moved, but went
nowhere. The rifts.
Soft tee-shirt not
bought, but found
later. Swim in it
for no reason, but
wet cotton
on flesh.
The great wake
up, hungover it seemed
then without drink
and no sense
of additions, no
medicinal herbs,
no primrose. The
black tie, tied too
tightly, replaced or removed.
21 February 2009
the Reverse Compatriot
(for Updike)
If my revulsion of
repetition brings out
the old work
institutionalized. I'll
live with it. Or die
anyway and not
begrudge
proliferation.
If a prevailing wind
turns up, does not
hit the sail but bends
and moving backward
pushes other boat: What
all is movement.
What round and hard
thing, pin-striped suit
worn—not so begrudgingly
holds still the switching
switchback until all
godliness returns to.
Interview, a life left.
I know you better now
without caring. Bridge
over cleft hill going
If my revulsion of
repetition brings out
the old work
institutionalized. I'll
live with it. Or die
anyway and not
begrudge
proliferation.
If a prevailing wind
turns up, does not
hit the sail but bends
and moving backward
pushes other boat: What
all is movement.
What round and hard
thing, pin-striped suit
worn—not so begrudgingly
holds still the switching
switchback until all
godliness returns to.
Interview, a life left.
I know you better now
without caring. Bridge
over cleft hill going
Labels:
poem
Sapling Growing Cold
Not for lack of anything
or for some necessity is this
sapling
a thing so small and lovely,
growing in a field of knowing
less.
whose fey protest is growing
less effective. And on the
middle—bottom of
hand-printed list on paper:
"be implicit less," "seem to
disappear,"
but don't. I love your slowly
going, out of sync maneuvers,
stolid conversations.
Your "Here, please hold this."
Shivering in cold outside of lust.
distinct
mistrust between us. Large
black felt pieces holding on to
bits of fluff
and covering up with two coats
of paint, as opposed to just picking
them off.
And this forest of fluff may've
burnt in a mind, but the future's
enough
that's discouraging
for new growth.
or for some necessity is this
sapling
a thing so small and lovely,
growing in a field of knowing
less.
whose fey protest is growing
less effective. And on the
middle—bottom of
hand-printed list on paper:
"be implicit less," "seem to
disappear,"
but don't. I love your slowly
going, out of sync maneuvers,
stolid conversations.
Your "Here, please hold this."
Shivering in cold outside of lust.
distinct
mistrust between us. Large
black felt pieces holding on to
bits of fluff
and covering up with two coats
of paint, as opposed to just picking
them off.
burnt in a mind, but the future's
enough
that's discouraging
for new growth.
Labels:
poem
Too Plump Cherry
This line here is very
abrupt. As a cherry
that's too plump
for the picking
This is always how
it was. Is always the
over-ripe fruit on the
vine that's old growth.
abrupt. As a cherry
that's too plump
for the picking
This is always how
it was. Is always the
over-ripe fruit on the
vine that's old growth.
Labels:
poem
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