The better to hear
you with, my dear.

Come right
in, prayer.

Let those who have ears to hear, hear.
(Ab. Sourd, bien sûr.)

Of course, of course.
Amo, amas:

He listens.
She glistens.

Dear god, don't
let me use.

Shadows wave. Wane.
Weather, and in that vein,

a work of translation:
shoot up, get high.

Plough the clouds.
Sky furrows, the brow

of night, an evil
thought, a star

especially bright:
anger, just that.

Scat, track, shit, horse
and what'd he just throw in our yard?

Of night, a needle.
Erose, the petal

of the rosary to ring
god's words around.

Erose, those words
in the mouth of night.

where no teeth
are.

More by Liz Waldner

A Calculus of Readiness

I, too, come from the city of dolls. 
A small palm is my umbrella. 
This takes care of above
but below, the blind river of sadness rolls 
on and in it, a hand is always reaching up 
to pick fish from the night-time sky.

The lines on the palm of the hand lure a trout 
with a strand of hair from the head of a doll. 
The bait is the hope for a hand on your brow. 
Shadows play on the wall. Or the face of a doll. 
The plants eyeing each other
is all.

I would not call the stars generous.
They don't cry enough for dolls to play Drink Me. 
They don't cast a covenant's fishy rainbow 
yet leaf faces watch the open window 
where they hang far and hard.
The rein of starlight a second hand

with which to play Go Fish.
Now Give me a hand, plants. Now give me 
good-night, stars.

Where, Broken (the darkness

Cows on the spine of the hill like the spine of a book are some letters

Letters with legs; like an E and an L or an R that is squared like the box of the 
body of cows

Like the spine of a book, the legs and the bodies of cows spell out the name and 
maybe the head spells also the name of the book on whose spine is embossed 
the name made of grass:

The light of the many days and the darkness the roots of the grass pull up out 
of the hill and the light pushes down with the feet of the cows and the darkness 
inside of the skulls of the cows, all these the name has eaten

The lines of the spines of the cows grazing the sky, the meeting of spine and sky 
also marking the arcing edges of dark or light letters on dark or light pages 
where, broken, the name grazes the thing it will know or mean or become

These are the choices.
However, there are other books.

Witness

I saw that a star had broken its rope
in the stables of heaven—

This homeless one will find her home
in the foothills of a green century.

Who sleeps beside still waters, wakes.
The terrestrial hands of the heaven clock

comb out the comet's tangled mane
and twelve strands float free.

In the absence of light and gravity,
slowly as dust, or the continents' drift,

sinuous, they twine a text,
one letter to an eon:

I am the dawn horse.
Ride me.