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HOW DARE THEY?
raku was the rage
for the shine of carbon soot
the fire pit
invaded and populated
by the gloss of a pair
we are held by twigs
the bone that has no marrow
shadows on the grass
where wind comes like a bugle
its thoughts are just one heart
In heat already with what others think she will be engaged with later. Camouflaged, her guts’ own divine purposes obviously at risk. Friends gave her new first names: Hekamede, Luciferase, Yasumina – one of those most shimmering will be coined. Fall-oriented, she sheds her skin in a sheep milk bath. Lover Dorine oils the bracelet’s lock.
after the snow
does a cloud divide into two?
murder the truth
jarred by every night and day
a slave to thought or painting
The one walking on water naked is the model: give in angel of the punctured wing, do not forbid me to steal the trembling of a jeweler's scales, just by eye contact. May I subscribe to the silk of low tide sands becoming the hairy canvas allotted by a few inches' of colorful cries?
a mention of dreams causes a reabsorption of
what religion had layered over the facts
in our lives there is a geographical problem
of wide skies over the scoured earth plaza
I was tall in 1946 for my eighth birthday
Ohio had a city America had reduced
to streets made desolate with neon and prayers
let it explode as one work concentrated for a
Dealer: the top price telephoned by a suspicious bidder is less than a tip for the eagerly gasping senses getting served. Remember the grammar of an artist's juice is taken from a pear at sleep, dreaming
horizontal commas
another late day and I am sitting
drawn by some body
wily and sage who served Lucifer
but not so witty in the movie version
any trust but ache
without the door winked closed
persiflage in poets
spill old and curled crustaceans
as a vessel of blessed conjecture
Dinner time. They are not blaming the kitchens’ chef for keeping the sweet doves alive and sacrificing instead only garden-grown spinach leaves and raw herbs. The yogurt floating on top works for the humming wasps entering their liquid heaven
how dare
those two old folks
fingerprinted
by clay pots and holy beads
lift the larger lid? |
