Archive for June, 2012
Each year I hold her ancient body in my arms
as if she were a little child again. I tell
her not to listen to the sound the river makes
behind the clouds and fog. We’ll pretend it’s
only the sun the hills have hidden, not the words
we can no longer read. We’ll pretend sunshine is
neither a song nor a poem. You must listen only
to my voice, I tell her; not to its whisper.
And so each year we add to her mysterious poem.
Each year she trembles in my arm,
once again my captive. Her muscles fade
into what they must stand for—
Your dreams defy death as night ends,
I whisper. You aren’t really asleep.
The haiku is like an egg,
Because the rain speaks.
Of roots, names, wet flowers. That
we are underlings.
We are not brothers. We are not friends.
How can we be anything while Lucifer is with us?
He is elusive now as ever, sure,
his cosmic mind…it seems wholesome.
But the coherencies that form his intellect
are neither part of his mind nor part of his brain.
—O, Phoebus heightened!
Our companion. We live in your vapors.
How it unfolds, this grand catechism,
how it sears the sky with its questions.
But wait, a pirouette of steam is nothing like
thought is to poetry. This cannot be
a baptism of old dreams: for where
is your name, friend? How can you be a name?