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Thursday, November 10, 2011

Three poems and some images of mine

I should keep up with this but everything seems so crowded these days and so hard to do anything. But I am writing a lot.


She puts on the cape of swans.

She puts on the cape of darkness.

She puts on the cape of dim music.

She puts on the whispering cape.

She has the songs already in the chamber

When she fires. They look for corners

In the night where they may hide as darkling beetles

Do. She puts on the chorus of stridulations.

It is so easy to be distracted, to look away,

To lose sight of her movements. She wants

It that way and drives her car as if it were

A moth finally escaped from the flame charms.

The sea horns begin to make their low pitched

Bellows. “There are dangerous rocks here,”

They announce without any words at all.

Everyone cowers in fear, the sound of the waves

Crashing against the cliffside. Let us hurry.

Bring the instruments. Find where the words

Are kept, what shapes may be noticed in deepest

Night, where the moon is resting right now.

She puts on the hood of stars.

She puts on the shoes of the sylph-footed.

She makes the gestures learned from the old days.

She slips away before we ever get near her.


This belongs to the night.

It has those lights about it.

It has that shape we love

That curls into our own body

As we lie abed, not sleeping

But remembering how sleep

Was and what kinds of gifts

It brought to us.

We are unable to speak,

Think ourselves still asleep,

Covered in the cream of darkness

That pulls on our legs, urges us

To dance if only for a moment.

We stand upon the water.

This must be the part of dreaming.

But we find we are water, we

Move through one another,

Scooped into an iridescence

That we can barely remember,

“Mommy, I was glowing. Am

I still glowing? I think I am.”

There is Saturday everywhere.

The morning leaks through the blinds,

Slides across the room and finds

Our eyes. “Yes, you are still

Glowing.” Right now, it’s the sun

On your skin, the soft, tiny hairs

On the body captures light for

Its moment and fills the morning

With smiles that will stay with us.

They are the daughters of longing.


Ginger and cotton,

Pistachio nuts, poppy seed,

Nutmegs and raisins,

Muslin, red and gold bolts.

A vocabulary of things.

Our conversation could not

Find words and did not use

Them when they could be found.

A drape of fabric was more

Articulate than talking of its

Form could ever be. Rain

Was always welcome. It made

Great gestures that caused listening

From both of us. We undid

Mornings and stumbled to our beds

Describing with a sweeping hand or

By pointing at the moon behind

A screen of leaves showing only bits

And splatter of the night in

The trees. It was more than enough.

They were our cargoes. We took them

To bed with us, our heads swimming

With dreams even before we laid them down.

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