MY WORST ACT IS TALKING TO PEOPLE
WHO ARE NOT POETS
White gauze curtains the glass door,
Whitens
Outlines of red flowered bushes,
And
The dropped feather of last night’s silent owl.
The outside view, liquid, no rigidity even in the stems
Of geraniums.
Frees the consciousness to cast out
Closures and conclusion,
See
The geraniums’ green stems as orential dancers
In green silk flashing green lightning
From
Green silk shook sleeves,
Frees the consciousness to find an inner companion
And teller
Of fortunes.
WHEN WE DO NOT POSSESS OURSELVES,
WE POSSESS OURSELVES
Ahead, so much absence that won’t be absence, because
No present,
No farewells, no fangs, no farmyards, no finches,
No voices
So I think,
“The turkey vulture does not collect
Vouchers, or make vows.”
The wallet in the drawer puffed with pictures
That when looked at by the finder
Will not be seen, no
Relationship to
The others’ tears.
Gone are the thin, purple leaves jumping from the vine
Twisting around the yellowing boards of the pig pen.
No relationship to others’ omens, others’ occupations,
Others’ oaths, to the changing colors of the okra bloom.
Only the unfinished can fashion fringes and centers.
SCIENCE EXCLUDES SO MUCH THAT IS EXISTENT
Wanting to wear my ancient green hat with
With the ancient leather strap
And stay in
A colony of the unrecognized
Was impossible, so
I doffed, stayed
Bareheaded among mysteries.
Fused the opaque and the translucent, fused
The unborn and the ghosts, fused the cut and the scar,
These strangers stepped into spirals and screams,
Stepped into sackcloth and nakedness, into the fires
Of the salamander
And its red cone-shaped incense.
The rhythm was black and then a yellow, then black again,
Yellow again, the motioning was singing, : “Yes, Yes,”
And singing “No, No.”
The wind-shook flames of a candle that cried and laughed,
I heard the nighthawk outside, triumph over an uncertain sky
And an uncertain earth,
Find the madrigal in the marsh.
It was an evening of a snow-covered sun
And a moon that was a bonfire. |