At home with heartbroken winds.

A credible silence goes to where it's going

In rags of moonlight--

In a black skein.

This spares us the nausea of judging what could not,

Emboldened by deficit of insight,

Match the thrill of our urges.

Heartbroken winds, you are home.

Heartbroken silence, you are still going,

But you too are home.

Infancy

Mystery harbors in a sense of completeness.

The viewer must recapture his breath,

Picture himself before the fact

To be where, once--

To regain that infant serenity of

Watching a thing in motion

On the verge of sleep.

The series of our youth.

Once every last birch has been childishly counted
We will live between them,
And the rustling of snow that accompanies them.

So much like a piano one wants to be in expression,
So direct and punched in the force of sound.

I hear you.

November (III).

An open window frames the last of the geese.
Instantly the window loses its purpose

Or instantly embraces the hue of the
Cloud's scull, distant beyond the trail.

November (II).

When I was young the weather was always cold

And cheery.

The irrational in me expected a specific kind of fruit

From it.

The suspension of disbelief.

What harm befalls the world knows

Cause.

Somebody said so, and in saying so

Sides with us.

It is in that image and in less than no other that

We fashion a face upon our shields, breath

Cast on the skittish dawn.

The bilge of the swell.

The only way to stay safely aground is to watch

The waves for disturbances.

Rhythms flush whitely over

Cobalt barrels and dead fishes. What is lost is lost.

Keep your eyes open,

dirty feathers fill the low sky.

Mists curse in the applauding thunders:

The envoy supports the bilge of the swell.

Bread.

I am waiting for these words to be filled,

like opened slices of bread.

They are blank, and such as they are nearly inedible.

Once they were warmed by the bodies of those who loved them.

In their grasp

They tore, but only so as to

Embolden them against the

Threat of incompleteness.

The roots of evil.

My arms are open--if only

The teetering mention of you would fall.

I would resist all other urges.

In an orchard, nearby.

The leaves lift the wind.

And a skipping aspect of the radiance

Flies in the bare wood.

November.

A pale droplet falls, then another, raw on

The autumn field;

The moon has taken the place of a

milk sun.

Everyone is home.

I am resting my hands on the table

After today.

Piles have moved across the lot,

Now everyone is home.

The late sun relaxes in a copper bowl.

I count the ways.

In those streets of light are

Each and every hello to a gray dress washing the rugs, and body;

If light has a memory then everyone

Is warmed for comfort

Doomed and

Light has a memory.

Is there any guiding mystery?

I've been left wondering in the way of a clock

At times

With half a moon showing

And a girl readying indulgent lines

Beneath it,

Is there any guiding mystery?

Could I help my parents by selling my hands for

Their stowed yield?

Is this cobweb refrain written on the others as

A sign of age,

Or are they saying thank you

In the tack of their bales?

Clear and blue.

If there is a heaven and

If the tender sky can in its

Weakness

Hold the deserving few

Then where must they stand so we know?

The audience of saints who resisted the

Wretchedness we share--

Was the encumbrance less than it is today?

Were women kept in chests

To honor the purity of the eyes!?

(Jesus, don't answer that.)

Such as it is.

A weight so forceful in the hands,

In a minute it will sink,

And everything I've tied to it

Will be drenched and

Will storm centuries of the deepest

Steel wealth.

Remember me,

Remember her,

Remember what we called centuries and

The Gods named

Embarrassment,

Polished--we did polish it.

Of warmest rain.

This dream is no ordinary dream.

When I reach out to touch you

I crawl to the pitch of warmest rain,

The familiar crown from the street lamp,

A storm grate overcome with swill

And music to fill all memory.

The ruse.

Language is wrecklessly close to nothing at all.

Its replacement with more careful inspection,

Love,

Divulges itself with grand spills to disorient

The speakers, hearers

Translators. Love:

Running from the chin

Cracking the teeth,

Melting the tongue as it jerks on the weight of

Peeking adventure.

Is

Unstoppable,

Or who would?

You get it?

Your home.

Give up a morning and root

For the seeds you've sewn.

Skewered by pillared shadows

And limited in the means of

being found

Those physical doses will doubtless have been

Strewn about you.

Fortune is a meticulous thing

You learn with stubbornly stubbed fingers.

Some of those mottled pockets in the ground

Are yours, with

Fresh shoots,

With your neglected likeness.

Of the hands.

You can learn from a town what you can learn

From the rock beneath it.

There in the infant features of a tilted glass catching the light

Blazes the infinitude that left the rock beneath it.

Stolen from each blade

And each color

Is a voice of choking

Order--

Disoriented by its direction--

As one to another it as a word--

Briefly animated as blazed the infinitude

That left the rock beneath it.

The river rises.

Carriers now familiar with the bridge
Cross again even as the rains leap the guardrails;

The river is confident, it grows up.
And on the dry cobbled grade below a
Scholar sleeps off a handful of strewn days.

The end of a conflict.

Now in the decadence of grass
The archway is split in half, each

Side vanishing in a shriveled
Cavalcade.

Who looked and read the epigram so
Chapped and lichen-pocked?

Could either have known that
The revenue of the sun lies
In movement--

That stone slows the foot?

Vital limitations.

Haste more than time
Mothers each new day.

How many thousand years
Of daylight and work
Must pass across our skin to learn

The vital limitations of the species--


We have no choice but to go on mercilessly.

The miracle.

And when they see it this one time
They will call it by its one name

As if that was the only word that was ever written down

The only word summoned when a woman kisses.

In a storm.

A wooden pin holds the mast in its place
Against the hail of adversity.

In the meeting of winds a storm makes details.
These waves are illuminated with silver nicks

And steam.

The boat itself will fold and reemerge
Sink, then rise.

Each dreamer copes thusly with a task so lowly as
Being borrowed by the ocean;

Each dreamer will sink, then rise.

Today.

A perfect breath of air is waiting,
And the land,

Perfect,

Will wait with its kindness.

The virgin.

Each pear grows til the moment it is picked.
Ripest rains pursue its froth-colored sugar,

And the Earth, patient, waits with
An upturned palm.

Voices till in the branches as
The young wobble and

Dream of their next climb, fall, fall again.

In violation of what, it's natural to wonder?
Encouraged, but
By what?

Engendered to bloom and rescue the
Hardest senses
Til the wrists ache from reaching and
Dreams assume that milky
Green.

In violation of what is this thing, exactly,
As the young play above with their understanding?

Here I am below them.

Don't stray.

Don't stray;

The broadest course of thunder
Cannot be mapped.

In the veins of it, however,
Is a flare of starlight.

Nothing escapes;

Don't stray, it has traveled
To shine in your room.

Passing by beauty.

The truth in my hands is a
Clumsy truth, but

It doesn't wither.

And when I wish for the prosperity of the fields I've passed through
I get little help.

The prosperity of the fields I've passed through moves as it
Always moves
--with such indifference.

Gunshots.

Echo least what distresses the ear.

And echo most what you spoke when I mistook
Speaking

For danger with all
My senses.

A Miracles tune on the walk home last night.

To each walk a tune.

And to a tune a girl
Singing--

To a leaden path this way
Glazed in icy moonlight,

Pause if you can once in a while

As in pausing we
Discovered the walk.

Coarse fibers combed from the weft of our walk
And walk so to demonstrate that here and not there,
Lies coupled grace with toppling

And the walk is sacred.

Coal.

To the lonesome miners who found the coal
Below,

Look at the sun and what you gave.
Your commodity is learning to speak
In a threadbare economy.

Mutiny begins in the dark.

All skin rests
When you ask it to
Just look.


Mutiny begins in the dark, Truest.

Mockery.

Silver feathers move to each side
In midair

As mockeries
Develop sincerity.

The birds keep flying;
Our jokes--

Even our jokes, hissy
Scar references, and unhumbleable usage,

Redeem us.

How?

No, truly, how?

Moves from fiction.

Can you tell from the rabbits in the distance
And the cotton wind that holds the sun

That none of this is real?

Is there amid the wealth of memory
Ample evidence

That what has gone before
Moves from fiction

And none is real?

Do you not see why I've chosen a simulacrum
As the tender birch
And tender thigh

Lie elsewhere?

The gentle road.

The air is cool when they go;

One and another part ways.
One final touch of their skin
Forces a laugh--

No one quotes Burns, or Shakespeare.

The gentle road falls below
Always such the gentle road
Where they part

When they go.

A distressed imagination.

A distressed imagination can sad to say
Be contained
With water and cover.

Before it burns its way
Completely through it can be corralled

And kept if you're careful
From the yield

Of fruit, educational tempest and

Shield.

When majority finally succumbs to base and
Last least majority

Let the swollen fingers be like fingers and grasp.
Let the tongue suck to unblock and--

Learily,
Loosen the hold.

Our conversation.

A language written is not so different
From the kind that is spoken,
Determining the fates of
Entire evenings

Crumbling decades of sayings
And humble buildings.

Accents you hear, swell and prevail
As you might expect
Flowers, to see, to smell,

Above a dinner table.

The first impact , you hear,
Says YES
As if the word is dry and hayish.

The second says YES
As if a moisture has managed to reform it
Back to a touch,

A beaded
And leafy

And lowly caress.

Cicero.

Number everything.
Then,
Make way.
Imbalance has an insistent way of keeping
A tab open

And a party going.

(Hellacious sterns of us grab for the door.)

A warm night in advance of autumn.

The ball of the moon has
Skipped few rooftops tonight.

It must be this city,
This neighborhood

In which certain darknesses
And their angles dictate;

It is not to say we are not awake who see it
There.

There is an outdoor cat in the earliest leaves,
And we grieve for the past.