Love, Delight, and Alarm [excerpt]

Then the treehouse burned. And continued

                                                                                        unobliterable as the sea

                                            to burn. The photo of it burning

hangs on its wall, taken from high up,

                                            but not that high. The firemen

approach cautiously, minus the

                                            four-part regimented solace, that

would repeat. If the act of 

                                            painting is Drawing the boundaries

of a fire, can I disappear

                                            into the initial combustion? If the

act of painting stops time or at

                                            least its cornet of fronted tremendous,

I could disappear into the Encyclopedia

                                            of Animal Life as the cherub's sleepiest

wet tusk. I could start with a dexterous

                                            periscope and end by feeling 

time, the largest block of it

                                            I can conceive collectively

                                                                                        Smell I the flowers, or thee?
                                                                                        See I lakes, or eyes?

Related Poems

Verses upon the Burning of our House

In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow near I did not look,
I waken'd was with thund'ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of "fire" and "fire,"
Let no man know is my Desire.
I starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To straighten me in my Distress
And not to leave me succourless.
Then coming out, behold a space
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And when I could no longer look,
I blest his grace that gave and took,
That laid my goods now in the dust.
Yea, so it was, and so 'twas just.
It was his own; it was not mine.
Far be it that I should repine,
He might of all justly bereft
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruins oft I past
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast
And here and there the places spy
Where oft I sate and long did lie.
Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest,
There lay that store I counted best,
My pleasant things in ashes lie
And them behold no more shall I.
Under the roof no guest shall sit,
Nor at thy Table eat a bit.
No pleasant talk shall 'ere be told
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lie.
Adieu, Adieu, All's Vanity.
Then straight I 'gin my heart to chide:
And did thy wealth on earth abide,
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the sky
That dunghill mists away may fly.
Thou hast a house on high erect
Fram'd by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished
Stands permanent, though this be fled.
It's purchased and paid for too
By him who hath enough to do.
A price so vast as is unknown,
Yet by his gift is made thine own.
There's wealth enough; I need no more.
Farewell, my pelf; farewell, my store.
The world no longer let me love;
My hope and Treasure lies above.