Louise Louis

I dive into this lunar disc but penitent I rise deceived by no serenity its surface can devise.

A lunar llama sagely sits beneath this crater's glow never to let me turn from it save wiser when I go.

Ah! Pity, lying curled as wayfarers lost, in some unguarded corner; ah! Pity, lying in the heart, shunted and limping as a mongrel dog once someone's shadow of devotion.

Bring wine for Pity and crusts from bread baked in the richest ovens! Light candles for Pity, perhaps she will be tempted to believe in something more than her abandonment. Strong men throw coins to her and she has seen their garlands laid against the stones where they had said she died. Rituals are read to her, tabernacles built by those who say that they remember. Incense and perpetual pilgrimage burn the heart of Pity the while she lies there mute and friendless.

When will they truly find her whose chariots raise the dust, whose potions predict a knowledge of Infinity— the depth, and width, and tether of the sea, the earth, the air!

Bring wine for Pity and watch you spill no drop, for it is Blood . . .

We went to where the bridge had been . . . as birds still tethered by a thread, spanning desolation's arc dividing stress by what we said. One silent . . . while the other talked; self-moving bridges as we walked.

When swift your grief then tight my arms cling round the threadbare pattern — yours.

And once again I seem to feel the ancient black inquisitors!

Make fast the knot that ties your heart and does not let it burst — I know.

The arrow lodges where the heart throbs with the blood that cannot flow.

Nor look to me who have no words but clasp the pattern that you keep

For I am binding grief again and dare not loose a pulse — to weep.

Sometimes I think we cannot die from wounds of mortal giving as long as there's a friend to guard the heart that bleeds from living.

Though like Achilles, it may seem we wear an outer armor, always there is one spot untouched by the renewing water.

And here, alone, the shafts could fly but for the friend to say: "Upon this spot I press MY heart!" And death must walk away.

My heart cries out from every window, and from every sill it peers and leans; my heart will not be still. Dumb beast with grieving for its kind, I cannot make it understand — It has no mind.

Earth's brown cupboard holds its only love; sterile and innocent death puts its vow of silence and of celibate surcease . . . My heart keeps running errands useless now. I have no peace.

Tell me, beloved, where you lie within the fretless household, like a queen, how can my heart know that you are dead — what does that mean?

I who might have traveled to a wider plane Who cannot boast of seeing pyramids Or skies, above some greener fields, or richer Fruited — I love the meticulous jogging on of time. (Dull time to some) for setting silver at dusk About a linen, clean and neatly mended. As if a greater Presence comes each night To supper, I love the placing on of goblet Or of cup . . . the plate of bread . . . the aroma Of the yield made from a harvest, stronger Hands than mine knew how to tend . . .

I love the comfort of the crystal windows Not elegantly yet with color curtained — The tassels dangling from the leveled shades Dividing with their perpendiculars A saucy street . . . unless with gathering dusk I let the first star of a moon-shell in.

Yet something in the plodding round of hours Seems silently an altar that I serve. Confused by many worlds, and so much doing I light the lamps, and wait to share the wine . . .

He kicked the brush and let a small rock skip doing a dusty dance ahead of him; then finding it before his feet began to toss it with his toe again.

There was a blue jay jawing from above— it made him flush ... a bird might somehow sense the need to play the old game 'kick the can' should be inside of such a "great-big-man".

He kicked the stone into the brush and grumbled, "Clown!" "A great big man" was what the jay threw down.