Frog Song (detail)
Day or night do not matter much
When seated in the red and white striped chair.
The room requires an ability to
Carve light into huge slashes and crescents,
And toss them about the room,
At once careless and precise.
From here it is possible to contemplate
The planets, one minute small, to be
Held in the hand, the next,
An impulse transforming them into
Something beyond human understanding,
An unceasing theology made of swirling
Rocks in an airless void that has no
Center and is everywhere.
I build talismanic instruments,
Swords and knives and offer them
To the sleepless, thinking they may be gods
That can unwind their own labyrinths
So one may travel from this room
Filled with chintz and recklessness
To find a precise place
Where we might stand, pleased
To be seeing a garden,
A faun waking a nymph,
The lemon trees,
The room where the song has
Finally found a voice that can
Only be heard by La Sonambula,
Pleasing to the ear, made of water
And the curve of a hand
To cup the ear, to repeat
A weaving in dream after dream,
Honey dripping on my feet,
Holding the ‘shyness of melancholy’
In the hands resting on one’s lap.
I cannot know it but for the
Loneliness of waking, illiterate
To all the writing in the world.
Dust creating a language within me,
I endeavor to speak.