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in his voice i hear
in his voice i hearneither amazement nor fear as he glances again at that soul that ignites into the image of his previous kingit’s the same light he saw the night beforethere’s no funeral attendancein his attitude as he watches the specter move across the battlements like a torch that lights the bedchamber of the…
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images of the poems i wanted
images of the poems i wantedto come calico or sleekand black furred and reflecting lightwith white from the snout downthe chest under the belly and whitethe paws of a poem i’d title sylvesteri’ve seen the thought in the headlightsto open my notebook like a door and admitone of those if ever i saw one stalkin…
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i could have chosen to go
i could have chosen to goout to the hour in which the music stoppedwhere with only the instruments the stage was ignoredthe hour undimmed where with light the bulbshung from the ceiling and the bulbs backedto the walls were filledi never chose to goout to the hour in which see throughmugs and glasses and bottles…
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imagination’s human
imagination’s human‘til something in a grassseed hereamong the grassesof the river valleyempire demonstratesan ambition to becomeeverything a grass canbecome by sproutingand something therein a grassseed across the riveramong the grasses ofthe coulee sidetribes that gatherin small bunchesdoes the same thingand something beyondthere in a grassseed among the grasscivilizations that stretchaway from the topof the cliffs…
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between that place
between that placewhen the light that litinto the specter of the deadking extinguishedand that place when that lightthat lit into that shadereignitedmarcellus leaneddown on his hands on the parapet peeredinto the horizontal abyss of the east i swearhe saw through a blind man’sdarkness that night like he sawthrough every horizonsaw all the way to norway…
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downstream
downstreamwhere the river moveslike reptilian skin moveswhere the old man’s* python water muscles under the skin movewhere water basks on the gravel riverbed between rising away pastures that leanupslope to the hilltopswhere beyond the lick of flood feedlots squat the bladders and the bowels of a thousand notwo three ten twenty thousand morecattle are emptied…
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no iron bars
no iron barsno concrete wallsthere are no doors of plate steel closed between what she knows before sixth grade and what you’ve learned in the seventhjust a schoolcorridor between where you stand and where sheshe never even notices youmiddle school you’re junior high your hair’s straight and shoulder length and ivory blonde and otherwiseyou’re no…
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varoom
varoommy lips shaped vroom varoomsounds like i was three and four and formingjourneys spun into journeys across the days prairiedto the cloud bearded horizonand from metal coils spiralledrustily and spiralled up in the seat frame baredof thread and upholstery and of all the stuffing of days spedbeyond the measure of speedometers smashedi heard the call…
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before i told him cain had watched wind spin
before i told him cain had watched wind spinthe powdered ground of the land of nod upinto a cylinder of fine sandsaw the lifelike statue of the memory of abel carvedinto a dust devilthe imagined abel’s face sculptedof powdered claybefore i told him cain had witnessedabel in the dustmarcellus believed in ghosts he wasready to…
