Crossing Autumn Again
First autumn piss rain and the silver bone of the hill.
and the gold wound. A slow odour limbering
and through the trees a split-grave mist
of gifts and rumours a loose diamond
boxed in a tumbled hour.
My stone muscles
with their woollen coats still as beggars
see no audience. They hush
in this cool room of leaves. They narrow
to a word. Nothing hears
but the birds who are not judges.
my glittering crust from when I was first knock-kneed. I am
crossing autumn again one arm sleeved in sadness.
The View Repeating
I cut my tongue on something good
and find a fist like a small blush bird
flung into one more dew-molested morning.
My eyes whisper like two blue seashells. They whisper
a quiet wedding tune. They ask what family is. I sigh
through my skin, the way the rain falls. I am alive, I say. I
drag the sun onto a spoon. The light
could have been blood but I am bold with old sunrises. I
imagine the dress I will wear
with its needles and its silver-sewn medicines. I read
from a book of poems about infidelity, about the art of dying. I am ready
for a fit of vows, but the view is the edge of the sea
full of quiet that repeats like a grief.
A Conversation Condensed and Expanded
I am more than one melancholy moment;
a drift; a sighting of sea. You washed me
through the night with your tongue
and you caused me a flood. I sleep blue
beside you while my dreams keep company with ghouls
and my dumb eyes open each morning wishing
poems were more than hospitals for my afflictions.
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