This was the vernal the unworldly human
the most elegant car in the train.
A faithful and anonymous band of huntsmen,
a runner of red carpet
spotted with pheasants
on which an origin, a cold sun shone.
These were the black shoes,
the skirt one smoothed to speak.
The unknown tongue for which I am not the master,
chiefly the messengers
circling back through the vectors as the ashes adjust,
a loner with a hat,
a loner on a cold dark street,
a man gone away for cigarettes
on an otherwise calm evening.
And the signs that said yield, and then Ssssshh, and then
let me sweep the porch for you.
A woman’s black beads scattering into order.
Girl running along outside of herself toward.
And time scarred up to do a beauty.
Dear Sunset that was sun of now,
Near Greatness, dear tongue my Queen, dear rock solid,
how could we know that we are forerunners?
The first characters in a crowd
and yet we were outwardly quiet.
We assemble here toward the river
or wherever the horse leads us,
dear oarsman the valleys are green,
some bodies piled
some bodies marked and burned away.
New ones just wiped of their meconium.
In the whites of the lovers in the evenings under.
Dear human mood dear mated world.
There, there, now.
Dear ease of vicarious place, oil in sea.
Dear ravishment of fountain
figure in the fold.
These are the beers we drink like oxygen
in hats as large as I.
The loner going door-to-door, the paint excelling
the door in cubes of prescience, durations of grey.
Here we attach the theatre of a girl
the miniature size comprehensible
the door a seed
the tree a dwarf
the hay a stack
the uncreated still.
Cool of the evening,
thine ears consider well
the uncreated still.
Huntsman in the quietened alley
in the dark-arched door.
Train long and harpiethroated.
Haydust thine ears enscripture.
Before gardens and after gardens
earth’s occasional moonlessness
on the data in the street,
under which loose animal
the unbending pale of whose complaint becomes the dust’s surround
The River Replaces
The river replaces, the willow drags
a horseless rider caparisoned in red
glides over the gravestones.
Velvet is the integument I’d hope for for night.
Our doors are unlonelied
in the most diaristic indulgence, Death comes unexpectedly
and so you sure better
knock, and in a magnitude of scales.
The most full-flooded four-color process awaits there when I have time “for myself”
and cannot render it.
I had to guess “this was happening” said one self to the other
who self same said as the original broke
through the dream hole of the second,
and hurled its relapse into a momentary
aquaintance who ground significance with a tired pestle
until my sleepy lover woke. I had to shade the place
just so. Heaven it’s heaven said it’s heaven
pure heaven the self hands heaven’s print-out
across a warm booth to another:
The heaven is without description.
Put them in one and the old will rage in a canoe.
Heaven was splashes of color
casually tossed from ecstacy to mania
so seeing had to become habitual,
seeing was certain films we could not look at,
films of commingstance. Might as well
bury me ’neath the blurry white oleander
crowding the pear tree near the family house
in its unassailable wedlock: personlock: what alchemy of emotions
to accompany speech
and bit o’ pain.
A grave is goodbye last ditch so long see you again, adieu.
Always within earshot, actuality becomes you.
We needed the rain.
Indoors I worked like the crow, the phone rang.
I worked at it,
and the whole time I could hear you,
you didn’t have to scream.
Here is a dark suit and tie.
Please write to me on a bed of ease.
Appearance forgets it like an egotist.
Heaven on Earth
I says oh Jesus, can’t I count on you people?
A zone goes where sky’s gone
what fresh hell for
burning and dodging, earth
where the state need not borrow. Have you seen the flowers on the river?
There is more to press them to, more
to compare. One has to swim through one’s gel to find
this one who had little to speak of.
This one who lay down though a motorcade went by.
Language of the west, please do run out into the ocean.
The art set crushed the tastemakers shamed Authority’s myth layed out under a giant work light––
the pile driving,
the pile driving its two notes unevenly.
Some breeze light rock in the kitchen the dead crying not to be alive.
Human and elegant great structures Time glued,
one is seeing through slats as one
is ferried to Lethe.
One doesn’t come home one wakens
Persephone to ask, have you seen
the daughters of Memory? Paper
is ash, eternity takes tumbling bodies into its apartness
One is walking away
One is a child made old under the quietened, horribly altered sky