Monday, December 27, 2010

Late December.

I imagine the waves have said things to the wind
We'll never know.

Watch the edge for a wisp of a clue,
The question comes first,
Then the asking party,--

Friday, December 24, 2010


The wine generously wasted
As anticipated darkly stained them,

In the smoke they kissed
When their acid speaking voices ceased.

In the kisses for which their cleared throats thirsted
The pebbled tart syllables slipped


They tasted.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

A truffle hunt.

An abbreviation with snout down
Sniffing at the frost

For the profit of its rhapsodic sacrifice--

Or likelier and sillier still,
The aromatic sum it casually lost.

The winter affection.

Purity, it turns out, is harsh,
Dew-lined lips, but blade-enforced.

The edges won't slice so much as ask,

With each pinked line: am I to pass,
Jabbed, and again--

Yes or no, did I pass?

The answer is certainly certain,
Though in certainty beyond grasp.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

The very young.

A tiny staggering drunk wishes to be heard:

Dearest ship, ragtops and waves promote the lonesome

Can you hear above the loudness of the seadrums?
Is it so loud that the shrift of my company
Grows lost?

Is the memory of me the rhythm of your memory?

Monday, December 20, 2010

The wishing voice begs.

What hewn warmth
Knows such a winter's distance?

And with what capability does it travel,
To the assistance of the

Trembling, awful wish?

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Oh, but in memory...

AFTER the war the crumbled wall was well at rest. With time and the expense of memory it said in wasted bricks, "You have fallen, but not so completely."

Dust revealed the blush foreground, the light as it was, then,
Watched with purple eyelids, and

Said now, "You have fallen, but not so completely".

Thursday, December 16, 2010

The olive branch.

The dream is a permutation of
A wish--

Even if it's a nightmare:

A bird's dearth vanishes in the clouds;
It hopes, intriguingly, naturally,
As hope encourages

So fruitful and distant, gaining.

Monday, December 13, 2010


The skin wrinkles and relaxes--
It is cooperative.

The feral eyes see auburn consequences
In the fires

Of the festive.

Saturday, December 11, 2010


Gold in the light and
Of no good value to the Earth,
The ritual of digging them up is sacred.

Look how the last umber sun floods my hand,
Fingers relaxed inches from where they searched
So long.

Friday, December 10, 2010


Spend wisely on the new.
Which breathes because we were smothered,
Which eats because of fire and we fed it

--which labors in a croak of silence
While we sleep and dream heartily of its safety.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

In an orchard, nearby.

It speaks in shoots and little peaches,
Having learned the vocation from great hands

In wide-slung reaches.

How does it emblem the young restives of

It decides each by each,
Arid furors and dewy peaces.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Real poverty.

Wind is the prosperity vested in the senses.
As such it ought to be respected.

Most nights when it's cold you
Leave in a sweater, tightened to yourself

From the beggarly weather.

To the familiarest shadow.

The cad said to the same cottage,
"I wish you knew."

There are two of everyone
And of some more.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

The spare answer.

Fit armaments pant for the spare answer;

The field and sighs correspond.
They are not ready, their temple of grass and
Gulfs of wishes:

They are not ready.

Scenic burden.

Gerhard Richter Mustang-Staffel (German 1964)

The bird, atilt, expects of the green air
What the ocean brings
To its homely carriage--

A graveyard begged to wait.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Stolen silverware.

So with touching it--rushing, reveals.

So, with so little to keep tame hands still
Theft occurs, dropping the wealth

The tame steals.

The orphaned state.

Behold the disappearance of the Origin.
The consolations cricket-chirping, a new rainy sea
Of umbrellas above the orphaned state it sticks us in.

See the fleeting softness of its cheek aglow--
Fresh and mysterious
From the hips of a ripened rosy volcano.

History has grown shorter,
Telling us about these disappearances
Incomprehensibly, and

In order.

Mirror image.

What begets isn't at all conscientious, often running late
And apt to forget.

Regretting is true, knows only it's one lush
Reflection: regret.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

The brief passes.

The light forfends
Its idle collaborators.

What narrows to cross the pass
Escapes with an accuracy
Betrayed by every shadow.


In this instance he would go inside himself to the land where he and his sister had grown up, where he, rather, they had already begun to prepare for their children. The invisible generation still waiting to appear, they were to tend all the familiar things.

But inside it was not the kind of place he could look at or walk past--instead it was a blue coil reverberating with a chill tone. This was forgiveness. He might've had a field of hearts to share this choice, all for naught. He spent those moments, that evening, choking on the one he had.