Someone inside says, "Get busy." But I've got appointments to keep, I have an abstemious love of equations calculated quickly While the tepid day melts into design. And the high cheekbones of the beautiful life Bear the loose look of a calendar by lamplight. I search for patterns in everything. I am tied in knots of comprehension. I think, how useful it might be To pierce all the hands of the earth With an oath of pins encircling snarling planets But talent and shallowness sewn together Is nothing but a kerchief tied around a survivalist's head, And it helps to know the feet wriggling through a hole In the universe will land for an instant Upon the cushions of the dark, And that after marching one doozy of a kilometer after another, We each come upon the same poem scribbled in invisible ink Taped to the door of a room In which an austere justice is burning for us.
I am Like a Desert Owl, an Owl Among the Ruins
The alpha You. The omega You.
My grandmother’s ghost, its girlish snafu
Basking in the waters of urgency.
But I want the coolness of snow.
I want pairs of hands that speak to me cleanly,
Sutras to resuscitate what reigns
Over warped celluloid and heirlooms I can’t touch.
There are no family photographs.
Once I was ordinary.
I rattled around with arms, with legs,
With a damp remembering that served me well.
Then, a little sleep, a little slumber,
A little folding of the hands to rest.
I asked myself, don’t you just love it?
And then, why don’t you just love it?
And then, from what grace have I fallen?
Am I Sisyphus with his mute rock
Unsettling the topsoil, dissolved now
Into brandied battle shouts and pages that breathe like people?
There are hazards here, more so than before
The Furies struck and scarved the white night sifting
The bright waterlights blinking
And grieving over a mash of ice.
Like them, I wanted only to die, moon-dark, blessed,
Poised beneath the driest arrows of my suffering,
Far from the flocks of burning, singing gulls,
Face to face with the God of my childhood.