Letters could like larvae grow
in lath beneath a plaster page.
White bodies curled in wood.
The writing on a wall destroys a wall,
or through a slot, a book opening
the next room narrows:
coffin ocean closet
in which slow chaos
churns the clouds, a hand-clap,
acclamation of rain, privately
acclimated at the table-top
and soil everywhere in the sheets,
surrounds me sleeping and must
not the frames erase? nor could
we count the hours’ contents,
ours and others denial
of ownership, of every city
when loops of smoke hung from a beam
or the rungs of ladders into the attic,
lungs-full the whole breathing doorway.
A home number.
And received someone, you not being here
camouflages me - a beige bandage - yellow crayon star
or gypsum patch over my eye, your breath like a paint poured
over my hair, glossed laurel
edge sharp enough to ink.
And thinking of his shoulder and that constellation
of sweet bay scent, us bachelors
boreal, a crown of leaves were stars.
“Ace of Swords”, give me an ax or medallion,
we’re winning the race past Daphne
where she sprouts two bush like wings.
However not living within the (s)core
of a wheel spoken of a violin broken.
You and the kitchen interior
filling with art implements
and dirt; each instant
seeming to align
in opposite corners;
square scene of the hours,
through what disembodied
pane a reflex and a world
entwine, re-glazed and fixed
into a sash itself salvaged.
Unwashed and ignorant the heart
in weathers wet sears its fixture
in the hearth’s gaze.
“With proper tools these hands
could edit, could reverse
that material accretion of moments’
Stray hair and loose change,
words piled in a landfill
if washed away an eon
May suffice, for this broadcast
to surpass heaven’s bubble.”
our earth’s babble…
Has bequeathed our eyes to us, to fire,
the clamorous hands risen to extinguish
A solo cello by the stove knelt
arranging snow around her,
weighted with fabrics,
the hillside called funeral
parade through hemlock,
as a warning. Frozen we were
together wheel and handle
bearing dream into public,
Shoulder to shoulder.
A violent soil wove a place of me
rocking in the shade, the sun falling
and the moon falling. Lillies on the crests
of waves and mirrors in the waves, between
the pages: afternoons cathedrals fingers.
Your sun-bright cheek could be a wall.
My home where my hand rests.
The beating of wings on the dial
of a little radio in the fireplace.