THOUGH LOVERS

BE LOST

A poem in six parts:

Dali's Clock

. . .

Monet at Giverney

House of dreams

Suite Ste. Luce

Though Lovers

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Building on Sand


 

1

Everywhere the afternoon

gropes steadily to night.

Some people have lit fires;

others read by candlelight.

 

Geese litter the river bank,

drifts of snow their whiteness,

stained with freshet mud;

or is it the black

of midnight's swift advance?

 

They walk on thin ice

at civilization's edge.

Around them,

the universe's clock

ticks slowly down.

 

2

Who forced that scream

through the needle's eye?

 

Gathering night,

the moon on the sea bed

magnified by water.

 

Inverted,

the big dipper,

hanging its question

from the sky's dark eye lid.

 

Ghosts of departed

constellations

walk the night.

 

Pale stars scythed

by moonlight

bob phosphorescent

flowers on the flood.

 

3

The flesh that bonds;

the bones that walk;

the shoulders and waist

on which I hang

my clothes.

 

Now they stand alone

beneath the moon

and listen at the water's edge

to the whispering trees.

 

They have caught the words

of snowflakes

strung at midnight

between the stars.

 

Moonlight is a liquor

running raw within them.

 

4

There are striations

in my heart, so deep,

a lizard could lie there,

unseen, and wait

for tomorrow's sun.

 

A knot of

sorrow in daylight's throat;

the heart a great stone

cast in placid water,

each ripple

knitted to its mate.

 

Timeless,

the worm at the apple's core

waiting for its world to end.

 

Seculae seculorum:

the centuries

rushing headlong.

 

5

Matins:

wide-eyed

this owl hooting

in the face of day.

 

Somewhere,

I remember

a table spread for two.

Breakfast.

An open door.

"Where are you going, dear?"

 

Something bright has fled the world.

The sun unfurls shadows.

The blood whirls stars

around the body.

 

"It has gone." she said. "The magic.

I no longer tremble at your touch."

 

6

You can drown now

in this liquid

silence.

 

Or you can rage against this slow snow

whitening the dark space

where yesterday

you placed your friend.

 

The silver birch wades

at dawn's bright edge.

 

Somewhere,

sunshine will break

a delphinium

into blossom.

 

7

Tight lips.

A blaze of anger.

A challenge spat

in the wind's face.

 

High-pitched

the rabbit's grief

in its silver snare.

The midnight moon

deep in a trance.

 

If only I could kick away

this death's head,

this sow's bladder.

 

Full moon

drifting

high in a cloudless sky.

 

8

After heavy rain

the house shrinks.

Its mandibles close.

 

A crocodile peace

descends from the jaws of heaven.

 

I no longer fit my skin.

Iguana spots itch.

Walls encircle me,

hemming me in.

 

The I Ching sloughs my name:

each lottery ticket,

a bullet.

 

None with my number.

 

9

Late last night I thought

I had grasped the mystery:

but when I awoke

I clasped only shadows and sand.


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