makes wind
the way it whirls
about and blows
the neighboring names
of other signatories
away. The point
of it is not
the John or Jane
Doe it names;
the point’ s the quill
in motion as if
still stuck
and aquiver in
goose skin.
The trick to writing
well isn’ t up
the sleeve. It is
the sleeve
that fluffs up
the flourish,
that blooms around
the stunted stamens
of the fingers
and distracts us
from our grasping
for the sun
phlegmatic on my bier
no regrets — my body bears
truth stem to stern
beginning with the hips
who am of common stock
looking to the sea
face ground — nothing now
conjured from dust
suffering — hung by the heels
sought occasion
as will was never conquered
to see the host broken
a swinging scythe — the dance
this most pleasant to me
so make moan of the old days
say why should love live
The sailor boy who leant over the side of the Junk of Many Pearls,
and combed the green tresses of the sea with his ivory fingers,
believing that he had heard the voice of a mermaid,
cast his body down between the waves.
