1. |
Narcissus
03:57
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No one is ever home
the days when the rain comes
and the narcissus in the new grass
falls forward, pleading:
pick me up, or lay me down;
I have no one, but I have
this pretty face.
White faces on the green--
sunken, unsteady--
with stigma bent back to ovaries
and the new death glistening.
Buried heart in open ground,
eyes unseeing, though they adorn
a pretty face.
Overwatered, under water.
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2. |
Those Truant Bells
03:09
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Three days from home: dreams of waking
in a warm museum, three days from home.
Unentrenched, yet on display
and rifling through relics of released time.
Three days from home: an arc of hemlock
whence birdsongs rise, three days from home.
Those truant bells--their echoed longing
reheating sorrows three days from home.
Unentrenched, yet on display
and rifling through relics of released time
with a veil of hope to cry behind.
Three days from home: dreams of waking
in a warm museum, three days from home.
That foraged ground whose silence sings you
an empty sky, three days from home.
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3. |
Some Small Manger
04:33
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It's a good thing you never trust a knife,
or in some fit of madness, you might undo your arteries.
So much for a love of life...
but if ire saves you someday in an alley or gallery,
we'll call it some vision, derivative as it is.
Bidden or--more often--unbidden,
someone's god is here.
About the everlasting life:
that promise, like a sweater, is unravelling at the seams.
You put it on a winter night. If it saves you
someday from the loneliness and the freeze,
we'll call that sooome knitting! (Prohibitive as it is.)
Bidden or--more often--unbidden,
someone's god is here.
Reconciled to take the fables to heart,
chaste in the virgin day.
Self-exiled to some small manger: a heart
that beats itself away.
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A Warm Museum Poughkeepsie, New York
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