Archive for July, 2013

Breath In, Breathe Out

July 22, 2013

Breath in a land so small
that even dancing angels must collide—
a pinprick, a postage stamp,
an image held in the mind so long
it has become an experience.
It must have known birth
and believed in death to be out there.
It is a breath of us.
Breathe in, breathe out.

Breath is a breeze renowned
for its narrow imagination.
As the line that divides here from there
grows longer, his one good arm grows in an arc
extending earthward into
a microscopic existence.
Yet he strips our clothes
and steals them (indeed) like a thief.
Breathe in, breathe out.  Again.
Breath in, out.

Professor of Philosophy

July 12, 2013

Our thoughts might be as raindrops that fall
and cling to a land so vast and so asleep,
they could be either [A] a sentence about the world
or [B] the world itself in the form of a rain shower.
But such thoughts are dreams. For while it remains night
and darkness lies desperately in our throats,
neither sentence A will tell you
what is true of the storm,
nor will sentence B suggest
what may be true  when the storm is over.
How horrible. Such ideas threaten every night,
but  seem invisible and inadmissible by daylight.
It’s as though they might be on a mission from the bottom
of the ocean, a submarine, say, silent as a seal,
a weapon so fierce that it can rise and destroy
the earth’s forests with a single strike
—like a match—
only to sink back again and stay submerged
while everything on land burns clean.

In a Meadow Such As This

July 4, 2013

Come morning, in a meadow such as this,
we are reminded of nights when
women were not invited to sing above
the consuming silence. In a meadow such
as this, the music they did play was like a waltz,
ever beginning, as if all love poems were
spoken on an altar of sound,
like when the moon sets and the crows
begin to fly and whisper in  the trees,
and the herd of deer moves across
the meadow and swims out so far
into the bay, the men can’t make out a single shape.
In a meadow such as this, the men all listen
to the crows who call so sweetly to them,
it sounds so much like soldiers on parade, that when
the men march off to hunt like beasts of prey,
in a meadow such as this, they call it independence day.