UNTITLED I
take me in your arms again
as
another spring is born from
winter
place your lips on mine and
overhead the birds shall
sing a song fit to break
the heart
furrow-fields, lines
straight,
without error, all too ready
for planting, dew-damped,
fading
into the distance, a horizon
opened up
until infinite, beyond all
our poor calculations
how long will it take for
the seeds
to sprout? Only a skilled
farmer knows, winking and
peeking
at the sun as it rises and
sets, other
propitious signs well-known
to him, his
visage fairer than any other
and buds burst along the
branches,
newly green, tight-folded,
waiting
to be plucked
.....................
UNTITLED II
the woman says: do not try
to make me small; I am the
colossus who straddles the
earth
and engenders all that is
good,
mother of all the world,
grown
out of the sea, though no
pillar of salt ground down
to grace your table
no doll to be tucked into
your coatpocket, or a book
of matches
struck, one by one, their brightness
lying, extinguished, on the
landing,
dimmed forever to a smudge
of ash
mother of all, subject to
none,
rising above the lines of
littered phrases
meant to trammel her
in. No.
She
eludes these nets of
sarcasm, scar-casm,
gleaming ivorygold, sinuous,
sailing off
to better waters
...........................
UNTITLED III
do not mourn me when I
am gone. Know that I am
with you yet in every sprig
of green you find beneath
your boot
each squawk of birdnoise,
each
crack of thunder, flame of
lightning,
sudden wind stirring up the
leaves to
dance in brittle circles
only tell the bees, so that
they will
not decamp from their hives,
that I have gone,
and let them know of those
who will
voice the customary funereal
words,
walking, stiff-suited,
noose-tied, in dark
clothes, pinch-shod,
mouthing forced formalities
through
the fug of flowers, so
distant from
the sweeter noise of buzzing
hives
under the summer sun
