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II
Loosened by impulse. Chameleon waits in shady tree, soft green skin thin on alien eye. Look, make an ark of your books and hold them to shore. Wake to a place unknown before. The doctor showed a way, imagination weaving through us. Gather and light, send up smoke on water. Some ancient’s tunic’s caught up in your sleeve.
*
She came from the sky to grab his hair. He admired her with his eyes, and obeyed. As the cardinal flits among pink stones, her shrill songs entered his body. Along the horizon, water fades there into sky, where we came from too. She went to him where he floated in a pool, the current going out. Do you hear the wind among cars? It carries fumes and motor oil. The serpent, clean as gasoline, spreads into grass and dead leaves. There’s good reason to find things, but your praise could lead me astray.
*
You felt your arm rise out to strike. Can’t locate the cause in you. A man lights a cigarette, leans against glass storefront. He cares less where you’re buried. His heart stamped clearly there, on his face. The solid middle of his torso swells and a strong, reptile-like gaze narrows through reading glasses. Words from the newspaper pass through him.
*
On the wind, or in the mouth of a stranger, men resort to an acquisitive knowledge. The dream includes a threat, that there will be no source, no rabbit hole to jump into. A museum guard leads you to an exhibit of Indian Rock Art. Matrons coo in the lobby, bathing their voices in chablis. A man hangs on each arm, nodding politely to another who dries crops in his field. Crows peck at weak shells, break them, suck for inner substance. A femur and a clavicle lie half-buried under black soil. A woman holds her mouth with Victorian silence, her eyes on you, urbane ghost. What specter, what form, so hidden?
*
Out of the Noos, all this. A god lived in man’s arm, and held it, or let strike. Wind falls on warm night. You’re cautious, unconfident, forgetting too the source of action. Self and not-self bloom on a field where I removed the skirt, made small movement against her leg. Her hair up in sticks, chin held away from me. Our nature distracted by conflict and habit. A statue of Venus, fat shanks solid and soiled, inspires labor’s fortune. Abandon these tools, let them fall there in your fields. Let go the hoe and scythe. Release the yoke and plow. Embrace young maids, garlands scenting your necks, bouquets in your hair. Finger earth, go figure space.
*
The body is of bright and shining metal, the head of blue. A brilliance of turquoise encircled him. Such is the compression of Hell. For when upon the great return this season blooms, the form we bear vibrates, shifts into new radiance. A bliss of sex breaks us with new rhythm. We are seekers.
*
Sweet wet grass, its shavings dying on the lawn. Summer comes to suck the damp. Lord of Death plays hit records on the radio. Bones bleach in topsoil, the vertebrae inspected by old Doc Mud. I nurse on soil, hold your passages open. We were full of breath. Muscles loose, joints free. Did you hear that song, coming from a reptile’s pale throat pulsing?
*
They come to see you seeking favors. Attend rites, make passage. A stink in the nose, or limp leg — makes no difference. Drain the corpse, jar the parts. A pioneer marmalade made to spread on toast. O in her arms, a tender thing. Follow my tracks, my ibis steps. I’ll pen the night-sun to the day.
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