Swans and apples, balcony breakfasts,
skin hunger, a touch, no, a word,
not even a word
a sound
far away
past the cathedral
somewhere in the wind
a sound with just a memory
of meaning, of joy, of sadness
la vie en rose
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snow in the canyon, your heart
pounding softly, warm
against my dreams
a butterfly
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From my new collection, Schematics and Assemblies of the Cosmic Heart.
After wine, after friends,
in your room pushing back
bedtime forever. You strummed
songs on your guitar, songs you had written
in England, Spain, Greece, Mexico.
I read you my poems.
You fell asleep, darkness.
I stayed awake as the last bits
of beauty smoldered and went out.
I stayed awake all night
and the darkness filled with all
the joys and sadness of my life, all here,
now, in your room, the smell of rose water
lingering on the ragged edge
of time, of our time.
I stayed awake until dawn began
and your body began
to move:
“Open the curtains,” you said.
“Make the room bright.”
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The bread pudding chef
Three cups of sugar, four
eggs, I stir, and then
you approach: kitchen
becomes temple, stars
move, blood boils and beads
up, I try to concentrate.
Four cups of sugar, three
eggs, you do bring
in thrills a febrile
wild terror of sacrament
unknown or untendered
in safer religions. Stars
move, your glance meets
the window. Three
eggs, I stir, I take
it you are a witch,
my bright-happy blood
beads no amulet.
Picturing a small transgression
i remember
once
the moon
was sinking
and you pushed
it
up with
your hands
“witch” i said
and you kissed me
A fragment
Committing twice the intentional
fallacy, once the affective,
I offered an algebra of clover
and storms sweeping in
along the front range:
snow was in your hair;
you were puzzled.
The bread pudding chef’s lament
Three cups of sugar, four
eggs, I stir, and then
you retreat: kitchen
becomes empty, fruit
sours, cream curdles and dries
up. I try to concentrate.
Four cups of sugar, three
eggs, and the sun became
as sackcloth, the moon
became as blood, the stars
of heaven fell, mountain and island
were moved from their places. Fruit
sours, the center cannot hold.
Babylon the great is fallen, fallen,
and is become the habitation
of devils, and then was there
great weeping and wailing, saying:
alas, alas, that great city,
for in one hour she
is made desolate.
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“Maceta” she said
a place for flowers
chilled white wine
cafe nights, friends
stopped at our table.
Step by step walking
each other home
the stars not there
just the rain, the lluvia
the closed secret
of her name.
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Thanks to Gabriela Marie Milton, editor at MasticadoresUSA, for this publication:
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I haven’t seen you in 20 years
except in my mind’s eye
the hurricane center of the hot black night
when I slip to our trip to
Galveston. We drove all night,
knowing already it was the end,
and rode the ferry at daybreak,
the sound of the sea and the sad
cry of the gulls
scored upon us.
Then earlier, the southward journeys
past rice farms and shrimping towns
the thick humid patio nights
catching lizards
and laughing.
And earlier still, in the beginning
when we took LSD and lay
all night in a field of sugar cane
tasting the forbidden fruit
afraid
but liking it
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I too have seen the winter stream,
waves beating the swords
of ice, dreamed
of imperial jade, green and blue,
of topaz the color of honey.
Cold streams crumple
the ragged banks of dreary forest,
Above the stream the swells of snow,
Further still, the stars by time and distance frozen,
as far away as your language from mine,
as your solitude from mine.
Spring comes on apace.
The waves beat harder. The swords
of ice break like paper branches. We turn
inward, you and I, creatures of the winter, to seek
someone or something approaching,
cold comfort in translation, here,
the icy clarity of the mirror.
Meng Jiao (751–814) was a Chinese poet during the Tang Dynasty.
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shakemyheadhollow 