Archive for September, 2012

Mandrake Root

September 29, 2012

Suppose your mind is made
of words that seek the sun
with poison from the soil;
that your sentences
could climb as vines do,
chest high at dawn,
a canopy by noon,
yet come nightfall,
a miasma of
torment  and entanglement
must prevail;
that you are made
illusory by our simple
present tense,
even as you have lived
in the past, as invisible
to thought as suffering is.

[ 9 ]

September 21, 2012

A disordered mind
Welcome vernal equinox
You’ve come a long way

He thought the land too poised

September 18, 2012

When the boy in dog pants thought of ash trees
and poplar trees growing in the forest,
he thought the land too poised.
When he thought the land too poised,
he set pots of fire to burn among the trees.
They set the forest on fire.
He thought: Amazing, really,
to hear the pine trees scream
with what could be almost their own language—
for a fire can be like a dreaming of names
reflected backward
—more like afterthoughts
than serious reflections—
so that the boy in dog pants,
intent on laughing at our foolishness,
appears to jump into the very flame
he is in fact fleeing.

[ 8 ]

September 16, 2012

as luminous and
numerous as Tuesdays are
don’t get used to them


September 13, 2012

Wee Fish, Tiny Kids

September 8, 2012

We fish dream of July.
What fun we have
with the tiny kids
from Lyndhurst Blvd
where kids live in a jar.
They must, you know.
Otherwise they’d grow big and lie,
and these kids never do.

They read the same books every year,
and wear the same swim suits,
and swim in pairs out to the raft ,
where they jump in again and again.
They never stop or get tired
or hold their nose
or stop shouting ‘Geronimo!’
and twist down to the bottom
of the lake…

Where we fish see them try to breath;
where we fish dream of scales
and fins and funny shapeless eyes;
where we fish swim in between the solid earth
and the not-so-solid sky.

Late Summer’s Reply

September 7, 2012

Torn from latent roots
Thunder, the cloud’s carnation
The cicada reigns

This is an unsolicited continuation of Anna Mark’s ‘Cicada’. It of course has to stand on its own two legs.


September 4, 2012

Dry as dusk, tight red skin
turned to white wattle,
a memory, now so much less,
is veering off into a single parable;
the pomegranate, whose fleshy seed-pods,
if not a heart or a mouthful,
holds at least the promise
of diastolic fullness it
seems we will need at last.