It starts in sadness and bewilderment,
The self-reflexive iconography
Of late adolescence, and a moment
When the world dissolves into a fable
Of an alternative geography
Beyond the threshold of the visible.
And the heart is a kind of mute witness,
Abandoning everything for the sake
Of an unimaginable goodness
On a backwards-running clock in Lisbon,
By the marble statue of Pessoa;
On an antique astrolabe in London
Tracing out the sky above Samoa,
Thousands of miles away — in time, in place,
Each night conspires to create a myth
That stands for nothing real, yet leaves you with
The vague impression of a human face.
“Nothing but sunlight and gleaming,
linoleum flecked with flame,
a thick coat of wax that flashed
down a corridor and led to a room,
a place where I curled up a few
innocuous inches off the floor.
Straps — word out of strophe,
the restraints of line and stanza —
straps hung in loops on closet hooks.
On the nightstand a basket with
peanut butter crackers, a vivid
and unnatural orange, a crinkly
wrap. A knee-high fridge stocked
with icy juices, foil boxes, straws
glued on. A female voice next door
The wooden horses
are tired of their courses
and plead from head to hoof
to be fed to a stove
In leaping lunging flames
they’ d rise again, flared manes
snapping like chains behind them.
The smoke would not blind them
as do these children’ s hands:
beyond our cruel commands
the fire will free them then
as once the artisan when
out of the tree they
were nagged to this neigh.
On the street
with our money
clutched
in our hands,
buying bread
and scattering breadcrumbs
for the bluish
doves.
Paying
to see
the fire eater,
the cigarette swallower
and the dead vagabond
who breathes.
Greeting
the palm tree
that sighs
at night.
Saying a few words
to the staring
stone figure
above the gate.
Laughing
and rushing
in
as if chased.
In the cool kitchen
we prepare
and arrange our food.
And the man said, what has the dead man left
if not to be philosophical,
I’ ve plenty of time here at my disposal
to solve the deep meaning of it all.
The man peeked in himself and knew
in this life there is no riddle.
Flags of all sorts.
The literary life.
Each time we dreamt we’ d done
the gentlemanly thing,
covering our causes
in closets full of bones
to remove ourselves forever
from dearest possibilities,
the old weapons re-injured us,
the old armies conscripted us,
and we gave in to getting even,
a little less like us
if a lot less like others.
Many, thus, gained fame
(from her to ravish meaning ravine On the other side
artifice slumbers in the green. The shadow follows hour
by hour hollow and gloomy and which call me forth)
………………………………. grafted onto the sentence
o a long time distant to hang on my belly obscure parallel
images and tattoos age suggestive of the fingernail grazing
the thigh the valley get turned on
Like the stamen inside a flower
The steeple stands in lovely blue
And the day unfolds around its needle;
The flock of swallows that circles the steeple
Flies there each day through the same blue air
That carries their cries from me to you;
Now and again
I am here now
And now is when
I’ m here again
