Sappho says that to die is evil: so the gods judge. For they do not die.
What fuller beauty than beauty
willing to surface,
subtilement exposé, every
where to be found.
Many elements in my microcosmic corner of the universe have aligned such that the past 72 hours of my life have been a splendid pause of poetic experience. A pause because the heat of midwestern July and the lack of paid occupation allow for a comfortable lethargy, a slow motion of a still scene. Continue reading “for here there is no place that does not see you”
Intense girl stares down at paper,
zeroes in on the black heart of
her heroine. How must the
senses submerge? Ben Howard
sings “these small things, they gather
’round me, gather ’round me.” My
nail polish, black cherry, chips. Continue reading “Black Cherry”
The afternoon of our desire,
the cat napping in the barn,
the carnival tears of merriment and
the mess of dreams in mornings
when things came to mind—this
density of living among the dead kept
flowers in our mouths after
each mean and powerful rain.
You were not like the others—you
stood there facing the wood like
nothing fell around you. There was
the backside of your body,
the haze around your head,
and your terrible calm amid
whatever braved a movement. In
any phase of five minutes you’d
steal the galaxies, take them
under your gaze, and you were
shameless as a voyeur,
ruthless as a pioneer.
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height Continue reading “[my father moved through dooms of love]”
feather, of colour-
in-motion — but also
in the guise of
a clear purpose.
-From “Nine Ways of Looking at a Fantail” by C.K. Stead Continue reading “Finesse”
european kitchens, bread crumbs abound
locking locks to insides
it is good to be out in the world
good to try
a netherlandish sun opened up
I saw it
I saw it spread over the bodies of
black boy, black girl
age seven, age five
hand in hand, as they walked along
a long, narrow street
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone’s road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you’re lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home.
The Soul selects her own Society—
Then—shuts the Door—
To her divine Majority—
Present no more— Continue reading “303”
Roaming, falling, burning,
Dying as you live and
Stand tall in the frame of
and the blue of your eyes
like the space of the skies
and I’ve never gazed so long into what I cannot touch
and I’ve never held so near what blinded me.
But night falls
like burning stars
and eyes close
like turning doors.