Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Rite


mute
mutations


poet’s
poetry.

Tryptich


Kiss me as the dead have kissed you
your cheeks, the backs of your hands
the bellies of the crows you love so much.



Where they find openings the dead bury markers
a knotted snakeskin, a bloody dewclaw
a freckled hollowed cicada shell.



I wonder if the dead recognize the change in seasons
how the shifting sun and wind move them
if mud is a question or an answer.

your lilac note


your lilac note opened this shadowed burning house

and exposed the blindness                  the stubbornness
                                    the emptiness of me



I watch myself burn
and accept the homecoming

I awake to release another ghost



and when you hold me
like a child to your breast                   I listen
to your heart
binding us together.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

this is the second


this is the second
full day of mist


last week’s snow under
thickening ice


ashes float       flicker in
the light like snowflakes


this is the time to bear
your body’s stillness


the crows overhead
are barely visible.

Ellen


yes I miss
her       one
I can’t ever

reclaim
            lost
to our

dimensions
of regret
and blame

so soft
your eyes
and breast

clearly there
had to
be fault

            clearly
a loss in
pressure.

DIA Beacon


in this house
that was once
some sort
of processing
operation
            is still
some sort
of cannery.