I come to your house looking for you
but find only your middle child
I call you by your given name.
You do not come out.
The doors are unlocked and
by the window you left open.
It says, Camp out overnight! for surely the man enamored by darkness shall then return. The life of the room is
I clean on my hands and knees, &
at dusk, you finally call.
You were abroad with your mother
blood in your mouth & a coffin
by your bedside, a tiny demon
encroaching on her bagpipe womb.
snarling at others is dangerous, but
you were never one to be afraid—
I knew it was trouble from the phone call
for your mother, who is dead,
only visits you when you are
suffering. I look through your things:
they tell me where to find you.
I follow you to the bridge
where you are playing the hangman
and your mother is three birds on a beam.
I send a hand towards you—
how could you be so apparent? Is it
an Indian summer or
the lover to my side, or—
I pause to cover my head
still, hands bluish
a colony of blue
a sky of breath beneath
my gaze—the taste
of my tranquil heart.
careful daylight, ebbing.
For gallant headwinds
include juridical knowledge,
lyrical mastery, & no place
(for) quivering, reticent
shadows. Tu último viento: (a) wayward, xerophytic
Also published here: https://theamericanscholar.org/and-be-careful-darling/#.WjKobrbMwWo
How simple it must be, the life of a rock
ignoring the pulse of the tick and the tock
forgetting which dirty magazine it took
to read in bed in lieu of a book.
A rock with no shoes, no sandal, nor boot
Not even a rambling foot—
Like an artist, it has no need for food
Taking from the soil what is bad and what is good
Believing it could one day become something special, a piece of gold.
‘You go behind the sea and bring light also to the underworld,’
declaring, ‘Behold! this cup wants to be empty again.’
But you are the one who is empty,
A tepid ‘hybrid of plant and ghost’
‘a worm’ wrangling with a rope.
‘Nothing is more vengeful than your meekness.’