What of these words
printed in a darkened room,
what of the light coming in under the door,
what of the field beyond,
and you; what of you?
See the moon, who looks down upon us;
she watches her children
without remorse or direction.
We are seedlings under the summer willow-
me, thrown with the rocks
as the horse paws the earth
of the field that lies fallow around us;
and you, rooted in the rich ground,
bending in the wind, arms raised
in appeal to heaven each night.
Near the dead of the lake,
in the night of the woods,
the witching hour becomes thick and heavy,
where the divine will not pass.
The ones who borrow are hiding in the trees,
in the minds of the forest,
in the cracks of the earth,
in the deep mire of the evening.
Here the moon comforts the sun,
who whimpers in frustration where he cannot reach-
a tangle-copse of raven burdens.
The town turns out quilts
of every glorious color and heavenly design,
and I am a stiff black thread for the silver needle-
threaded perfectly, and useless for sewing.
She knows when the witching will happen,
but in her prison I cannot reach her,
and the light of my power is stopped in a dam.
Under the oak,
Under the holly,
Under the yew,
they gather.
The argent circle hung from my neck
is a signet of sacred light to stay the snake,
and a sigil to draw the venom.
Bones of a horse jaw I clasp, ward of the evil eye.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for a sinner, now and at the hour of my death.
When they dropped the ashes of my ancestors,
I remember a spirit rising from the shards,
wailing and chained to the ground under the half moon.
Someone holds aloft an effigy of straw.
It will raise a horror of bones from my still-warm body,
and I will become a golem for the rest of my days.
The inkwell is broken, shattering black over the parchment;
I was held by the heart when baptized in the waters of Styx.
This? This is “Daydream.”
It’s made partly of memory
that leaks into consciousness.
It’s true!
Here, hold it for a minute.
You can see house;
if you turn it this way, it becomes dog, or horse;
place it under water- it becomes death;
lift it up to sunlight- it becomes running through fields.
I’m not careful, to be honest.
You can cut yourself on the edges.
But it’s an essential effect
to keep in your pocket,
for when you’re waiting in line
or find yourself on a beach.
Here are the many-colored portals of history,
where rain slides down city windows
like weak wine,
and we each receive tongues of flame
and names, like
Ubermensch, and
Rose of Sharon,
to cover our childish names:
Drink of Dust, and
Watch the Sky.
So we travel this way,
or that way, and someone says,
“Do you like this apartment?
You can live here, and work, and cook, and love,
and say whatever you want,
unlike Joan of Arc.
In fact, her ashes were mixed
into the brickwork of this fireplace;
now you can both send a burnt offering
to heaven every night.”
But this is what I’m saying:
if we drifted backwards awhile, perhaps,
we’d remember
those other names.
Have you ever been lied to?
You are Heaven’s daughter.
Some say “God is dead,”
and you say “I think not,”
and I say “That’s a free Sunday.”
What will you do?
Take offense?
It’s been thirty years since my last confession.
Here, let me tell you my sins…
I’ll start with my birth. Now you try.
For penance, let’s count the last ten years.
Tonight, I will have a dream of our childhood.
Mother will hold our hands as we wander the museum,
not so much from a fear of losing us,
but to transmit the shock of space and time and meaning.
Now that you are sure you have purpose, and I am special,
I can reflect on the fact that this meaning has no meaning;
it slaps to the ground and disintegrates
under the slightest wind.
Besides, do you know how
immense and ancient everything is?
Fine.
If you come to the museum with me,
we’ll find a drinking crowd afterward.
I’ll play guitar,
and you can dance.
They hoard their trinkets:
Children, dogs, and houses;
monuments
to the funeral of common fellowship.
And yet the wick of superstition
burns;
faith may be an island
on which one becomes shipwrecked,
and most find their loves
ashen,
carried by the wind.
But you,
I would have you stay as common,
and smoothed,
and beautiful;
filled with irregularities
like the rose quartz I hold
in my hand.
Sudden stars tossed on the raiments
of a red evening,
resting in the desert air.
Woman, talk to me;
your words are thunder…
Cloudlings vault low
over the belly of a dreaming earth.
Remember this:
your hair is flowering grass
bending on a draught moon.
When you leave in the morning,
remember this:
my eyes are hewn rock
baking under streams of sunlight.
Chateau Margaux
1947
slithers down the stem,
from the bowl,
left on the rim
by your lips;
red-satin
below your brown-swirl eyes,
mirroring constellations
above quai de la Tournelle
and the Seine
in silken ebony.
Lights! Spread before us
like so many gems
inside a store we would not
be allowed…
The glow mixes with
steam,
smoke,
coffee vapours,
sprigs of rosemary,
candle wax.
The night so pure,
yet with not enough air for words;
and the silence is broken by a cloud-drop
making your cigarette
hiss in its long filter.
Let us retire to our homes;
for have you kissed someone in the rain?
No?
Nor I.
Litany_of_the_Lost 