07 May 2016

Untitled I, Untitled II, and Untitled III


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



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



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