Burn

...burn all night,
I whisper
to the candles-
my longing

does

(with silver wick,
round, waxen body)

Burn the wood
down. I am already
a-flame.

In the Park

A walk in the park;
we notice a boy
with a stick and a dog.
They seem exclusively

happy and we wonder-
where is his mother?

He has no mother.
He has a stick
and a dog, autumn
wind at his back,

sun of his eyes

and waves
of tree,
like the sea

surround him.

Even we
belong to him
now, and we
have nothing...

but this.

Of the Cup

I must tell you,
quickly-
as the rind cracks.

I'm an internal
drunk.

[ferments within]

The world
gave me thorns
and I bury them...

secret haircloth,
inside-out of the coat,
deceit of the smooth
body of rose.

I am ashamed

of the cup
that contains

but never
imparts;

of the ground
rich with root,

yet, refuses
to flower;

of the night
rolled in bundles

and how
it recoils.

Wisdom

I am not sure
of risk, of sleep,
of departures.

What falls
is collected
somewhere.

The dead
will not protest
the living...

because
inevitably
they fall.

Who composes
music for the deaf?

Who divides leftovers
for the rest
of mankind?

A word
to the wisest-

crawl.

Fair Weathered Friends

I toiled a field
of people
and did not
like one of them...

winter will
assist me.

Dead Wood

Fasten the door...
archive each
hiding place;

architecture
of my secret walls.

No names
or faces rise
from within.

I re-visit
the city
or cities
where compassion

was lost,

my silver locket,
my red jacket,
my white mare-

the ability
to make fire.

[my voice, my eyes]

On a warm night,
the pungent smoke
of memory burning-

dead wood.

Autopsy of Spring (draft)

...among other things,
the vibration
of bees, winter's
rhythm sliced
at its seams,

gentle crack
of the knife
in the sternum
of pines,

the knife
at the throat
of the sea;
a well-designed incision.

We begin to understand-

the organs,
where they lie
beneath the skin
of the sky, of the corpse
on its cold steel table...

examine the ribbons
of its offspring.

Separated

We are folded together,
fleshed origami

or spaces

between cut-out dolls
where the eyes should be.

I warned you
of fusion, of kiss,

of dipping
into bowls
with your fingers,

the reflection
of someone-else
standing behind you
in a mirror.

Only God survives
extrication...

(de-bone-ing)

the silvered skein
that shines pearl
and purple.

So we slowly
unravel, a little toy,
a top, a spool of thread,

to become
what we are not;

separated.

Prayer

When life
left the room,

briefly-

the color of silence
(black) remained.

In a small vessel, ink
of the last desire

spilled prayer.

Only Human (draft)

I come away
from the back doors
all in rows [graves]

escaping
their untimely lure
to taste the rain...

there is peace
in the green slopes
that haunts me.

Black cars,
tin tombs to take away
the living to temporary
homes, mud moves

through space. The clock
ticking. Always ticking
as he died...

I am alive
in his room
hearing sounds-

an alien observer,
an inanimate stone
with plastic ears-

a peeping Tom
addicted to the sight
of flesh, or

what flesh
means when it ceases
to breathe.

It is not unique, death.
Nor is birth, for that matter;
it happens everywhere....

a new cry,
a final groan

similiar [fragments
of the impossible]

We are
only human.

Neglect of Beauty

In the violent heart
of religion,

feeling

the need
to get away-

I dreamt
without you;

tall trees, pale skies,
dark birds,

the city,
the sea,

the anonymous
nations.

Here, all in black
I abandon

the weight
of my own
beauty.

Wild Deer in Snow

Yesterday, snow fell
from heaven
[small bodies of girls
surrender to white sheets]

Today, melts
against the warm teats
of earth- sodden flowers.

Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done
on earth
as it is in heaven...

always grey,
never white,

the book of fear,
the weathered nights,

the fragile steps
of wild deer

in wet snow.

Fallen Grain

There is no fame
for most of us;

one in a million
seed takes hold.

It is safe to say-

nature

has not blessed
the fallen grain.

Confessions

... and then we confessed.
Our guilt, panes of glass
in the bones of a window
without curtain or shade-

we weather the frost
and make beauty of winter.

I whisper truth
in your ears...

the wind
in a room
small enough

to destroy it-

you have my words.

Emotional Inertia

He has taken a wife.
A particle of dust
floats down, seemingly
forevor.

He is mending a coat
for a small child. I watch
the needle rise and fall

in soft light,

from the eyes
of my grave.

When will the sun set?

I walk backwards
inside [the] dream
as if I am frozen

there..

in a yellow field of lily,
an orange poppy
thrives...

why?

I am condemned
to a secret

inertia.

Imperfect

On a page,
grey

as a winter sky
at dusk, I write-

" the value
of life is.."


Paralyzed,
by night, I

leave the rest
for eternity.

Alms

...the gullet of a hand
pulls out pigeons
from the throat,

the throat

is a wind tunnel,
a corridor to a small room-

the wind
is a measure

of losses.

I am searching
for a way out.

I am a boomerang
returning to point A

as if point B
never existed;

the idea
is to remain

faithful

and drop alms
in the cups

of the poor.

The Art of Suffocation

...they had not forgotten
the art of suffocation,

the promotion
of suicide.

"You see" they said
"time does not change things...

it marinates, saturates
the bone".

Surely, life
is a pickle.

The boy understood.

Beneath his fresh exterior,
the boy was cured.

Marigolds

I am kneeling
in the marigolds,

white-haired,
flood the valley

in unruly procession.

Lovely-

the promise
of blanket

they resemble.

Rushing Away [Death Penalty]

The sequence of events
became a survivor's account...

build a spine
from an old fence

and watch it
fall in disarray...

whatever moves
in the yard will be gone

by morning

(a desperate
rushing-away)

Quickly

we lose reign
over our captive
beast.

Duplicate
the sequence-

this becomes
a freed

nation

(the definition of
redemption)

Somewhere,
in semi-darkness

a mother's
sorrow

[for dog
or the dead]

Resurrection

...if I resurrect you,
would you forgive me?

I have wasted
my prayer. Hear
the wind! There is

glass
in the air

as if it has been
broken. Your body

has betrayed
me. Once,

I saw you
as "gift"...

my eyes
are ordinary,

your's
were like moons,
a string of pearl-

I will not miss

light

in such a way.

There is no end
to silence, no blanket

to cover night, no soil
that will restore you.

A grey dove
in dark sky...

glides down.

If I resurrect you,
will you forgive me?

By the Sea

I was invited
to a party

at a house
by the sea...

every window
a sunset-

a masterpiece
in old frame.

The sand
walked in

without shoes.

I never realized
stars "ring"

like wine glasses
toasting the gifts

of a generous host.

Somewhere,
in the distance-

a grey whale.

God Bless America

You'll calm down
in a day or two

like a wet cloth
left out
on the clothesline

[you smell good
but you're brittle]

I think it's time
to understand

that no one
stays up all night

without a cause.

So many battles,
so few clauses...

*the tiny writing
at the bottom
of a contract

that nullifies
everything.

God bless America!

...at least

we've learned how

to pray!

City Sky

Do you see
the city's sky?

I will teach you
to imagine it...

the history,
the magic,
the movement

of stars,

the fingerline
of birds soaring

arched ceilings,

the pale shoulders
of moon beneath
black lingerie,

the tent of darkness,
the cage of wind,

the tremendous weight
of it's loneliness...

only
the sparkling
sea

overwhelms it.

The Weight of Being

If you ignore
the unequal parts
of weight...

for years
eternity traced
with hoary fingers

the form
of dying,

the fading color
of the hills,

measured
survival

against the jawbone of God...

and came up
empty handed.

How do you assume
dreams are made of

air

when they fall
as heavily

as dying?

In a single instance
of unmatched awe,

the hours recede,
the tide abates,
the ground consumes

its roses.

In the end,

the only difference
between light and dark

is a man
who remembered

"being".