Thursday, June 28, 2007
Gravitate to me, universe.
Gravitate to me universe, and circle my eyes.
Gravitate to me, universe, and circle my eyes, clear the rumors of beetles, moss.
Gravitate. To me, universe. And circle, my eyes, clear the rumors of beetles' moss holed up inside to
Gravitate to. Me: universe and circle. My eyes clear the rumors of beetles, moss. Holed up inside to gather wind & brittle ice that
Gravitate, to me. Universe and circle: my eyes. Clear the rumors of beetles, moss, holed up inside to gather wind & brittle ice that sing of old love.
Sing of old love.
Gravitate to me.
In it is such weather
How great it’d be to see
with those eyes again.
Though I suppose I still do:
eyes never change; it’s
the rest of the body:
it grows older,
and young weather
roots like an oak,
suddenly becoming occasional
in its blooming.
If only that oak would burst
out the skull at some ecstatic point
and shade the body eternally.
This is my oak tree, we’d say,
and giant leaves would circle
behind our brightly colored eyes,
large in our head.
With a mouthful of questions
I reach into the pocket
of my brain to find death. But
there are no answers to speak of.
The most hateful point of
death is the gray dawning
of absence, that small mouse
you hear only just: gnawing, crumbling
old, stale crackers in the back
of the cupboard. Reaching for
death isn't impossible, though it
looks almost foolish, as if you were
rummaging through a chest of clothing
and wrestling for the spaces
Monday, June 25, 2007
They were the Older Generation,
of me, the generation
of those facts that compose me:
a nose, an eye,
But what else?
Puttering behind the hearse,
three, maybe four times
a pallbearer, remembering
the cool, practiced voices of
the funeral-home men--
your body is suddenly not your own--
always moving by their instruction.
Now question marks putter
behind me: they drip
with the rock salt smell of a vaguely
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
It is the coolest night of summer
so far, and walking is finally a pleasure.
Once, two summers ago,
I walked outside, bathing in
humidity. Air only came
out, practically none came in.
What panic that must incite
to those caught off guard:
So this is death, they think
in that frantic choking
we sometimes get.
I walk home tonight
through a clearer darkness than
usual. I can only wonder
what weather will envelop me
in tomorrow’s afternoon heat.
Admittedly, this is rough, and could be separated from its stanzaic form, but still -- is that ending sour, focusing so much on myself, in the end?
Monday, June 11, 2007
where I do not care to be any more. Can Delmore die?
I don’t suppose
in all them years a day went ever by
without a loving thought for him. Welladay.
In the brightness of his promise,
unstained, I saw him thro’ the mist of the actual
blazing with insight, warm with gossip
thro’ all our Harvard years
when both of us were just becoming known
I got him out of a police-station once, in Washington, the world is tref
and grief too astray for tears.
I imagine you have heard the terrible news,
that Delmore Schwartz is dead, miserably & alone,
in New York: he sang me a song
‘I am the Brooklyn poet Delmore Schwartz
Harms & the child I sing, two parents’ torts’
when he was young & gift-strong.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Have you ever experienced days that
are a constant
ringing in the head, fire trucks
of I want and I need:
I want love. I need love. On your walk,
passing others who look straight ahead
or down or simply never towards you,
you are in the North:
each of us has our own ringing to deal
with, thank you. I want to love.
I need to love. Taking a breath, they
sound almost the same. But
is needing love more desperation than
needing to love. Each has its own turn,
I suppose. There is a moment when you
are looking straight ahead, but your
eyes meet someone else’s and she looks
away almost gracefully, but practiced.
You’re in the North, people only stop sometimes,
though you think, and she might too, briefly,
the oddness of catching someone
by the eye and being startled enough
to look away, like a pop up you have
your eye on forever, then suddenly drop
as if you never expected it.
whimpering in your sock drawer a towel
wet & discarded on the rug
a one pound weight hanging
from the small of your back
a suitcase of bees left in the mall
like neglected vegetables
like running upstream
like a gorilla, shaking the earth
with each methodical bite of wild
Sunday, June 3, 2007
blank notebook beside you
(on the bed, close to your dreams)
is that, even after a few nights,
the pages are filled with nothing.
Even as you sleep
& sweat off the day's small intensities,
that small blank garden.
[it's indented here...] But what
do you expect, after all? Dream-
flowers are all words in the
comfortable mouth of sleep:
they plant and grow and
you eat their petals & leaves. But
in the sawdusty yawn of morning
nothing is resurrected
except a vague remembrance,
a taste of sunflower
or mulberry. Getting up to brush
your teeth, smacking your lips,
words you once knew
disappear into the haze of morning-breath.