Archive for July, 2012

On Vay Cay

July 28, 2012

Vay Cay, formed inside the tides, is a reef
you can wade out to, like, a hundred yards knee deep
in turquoise water, find a hammock strung
between two palm trees, sit and watch the tides
push, what they call sea peonies, back to land.
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
I tell the wife. All those poses the peonies make
could be the effect of, you know,
a photo-tropism, the kind of poiesis
a false god might make to propitiate
the one true god…Vay Cay, she says. Vay Cay.

How the sun looks over the ocean.
The tiki bar features a Tequila Mockingbird.
I have a beach book and a slight red glow.

[ 5 ]

July 26, 2012

July 26—
Today could be my birthday—
As could tomorrow—

Cold Mountain

July 24, 2012

No one knows this
mountain I inhabit

deep in white clouds
forever empty, silent.

Cold Mountain (Han Shan)


July 20, 2012

To the camels, the desert might be their eye’s kin.
All those un-scribed lines they see
could be a tiny oasis, a place
to wait for a sudden aroma,
a mirage, perhaps, of vigor and strength…

But there are scents they can sense in the sand,
even when nothing is reflected,
even as they lower their long necks
to drink from pools of blood,
scents so perfumed, so peaceful.


July 17, 2012

[ 4 ]

July 15, 2012

A poem set to words—
Wind in a swallow’s wings, my
Throat full of footprints.

this is just one of the things he can’t see

July 11, 2012

That soil is the sun’s piety.

Sure, it could be
a grave of secret images—
a skin so dry and blown
so far away, that even the knight,
qua knight, qua the poetry itself,
must be at a loss,
qua explanation, to explain it—
but it isn’t that.
It can’t be that.
You might as well try to explain
the dragon’s tail without recourse to the dragon:
The thunder could be loss.
Turn the cards over.
The lightning could be loss.
Blow up the bridge.
The rain could be what comes between
—a modulation—
a transparency, something that
becomes virtually invisible when in the water…

and I don’t feel safe,
swimming without the water.

[ 3 ]

July 8, 2012

The cicada must
Not forget its cocoon. Its
Baby is the sky.

5 – 7 – 5 [ 2 ]

July 2, 2012

An old wood bucket—
Water, algae, pee.