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, IContinue reading “On Vay Cay”
July 26— Today could be my birthday— As could tomorrow—
No one knows this mountain I inhabit deep in white clouds forever empty, silent. Cold Mountain (Han Shan)
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 lowerContinue reading “Oasis”
A poem set to words— Wind in a swallow’s wings, my Throat full of footprints.
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 asContinue reading “this is just one of the things he can’t see”
The cicada must Not forget its cocoon. Its Baby is the sky.
An old wood bucket— Prerevolutionary Water, algae, pee.