Snub end of a dismal year,
deep in the dwarf orchard,
The sky with its undercoat of blackwash and point stars,
I stand in the dark and answer to
My life, this shirt I want to take off,
which is on fire . . .
Old year, new year, old song, new song,
nothing will change hands
Each time we change heart, each time
Like a hard cloud that has drifted all day through the sky
Toward the night’s shrugged shoulder
with its epaulet of stars.
Prosodies rise and fall.
Structures rise in the mind and fall.
Failure reseeds the old ground.
Does the grass, with its inches in two worlds, love the dirt?
Does the snowflake the raindrop?
I’ve heard that those who know will never tell us,
That those who tell us will never know.
and heard
Words are wrong.
Structures are wrong.
Even the questions are compromise.
Desire discriminates and language discriminates:
They form no part of the essence of all things:
Is a failure, each object
We name and place
each word
leads us another step away from the light.
Loss is its own gain.
Its secret is emptiness.
Our images lie in the flat pools of their dark selves
Like bodies of water the tide moves.
They move as the tide moves.
Its secret is emptiness.
Four days into January,
the grass grows tiny, tiny
Under the peach trees.
Wind from the Blue Ridge tumbles the hat
Of daylight farther and farther
into the eastern counties.
Sunlight spray on the ash limbs.
Two birds
Whistle at something unseen, one black note and one interval.
We’re placed between now and not-now,
held by affection,
Large rock balanced upon a small rock.
Leave a Reply