News: a signature of flight
stays imprinted on blue-black strata
in Earth’s uncertain crust.
(The body vanished long ago.)
The British, desperate like
everyone for fuel, mining in
the vicinity of Hell, uncovered
this icon of wing, which dates
from when flight went
unnamed in air. We glance
at accounts concerning
“the fossilized wing of
Earth’s first flying thing.”
Shall we congratulate
this synecdoche of dragonfly
set deep in Derbyshire coal?
Reluctantly I joined
the school systems, the
workforce, the more
or less normally regulated
life. Some discomfort
and no enthusiasm were
involved. I saw what was
expected and operated
along those lines. These
are not systems I invented,
nor have I the power
to invent others. One joins.
That’s all. Society is strange.
It is not something I
take to easily. Reluctance
has made me wary but steady.
Not long from now
nor far from here’s
the place where all
that matters now,
even if it matters then,
must matter to
somebody else.
To anyone who finds
this note: good luck
and look ahead
to your last place
not far, not long
from when and where
you read this—your
eyes, your mind
alive and quick
The quay is quiet
after the day’s riotous
weather. We wonder, stunned,
about such fundamental
concepts as property.
Suddenly how very strange
it is to think that anyone
would claim to own
a piece of Earth. Our
ponderings give way
to hunger, fatigue, and vertigo.
Horizon
is florid like the face
of our friend caressing whiskey.
Birds scream in palm trees.
Tackle on the boats knocks
In an unambitious café
on one of the smaller avenues,
she took her evening meals. She
kept the objects, events,
and duties of her life orderly.
Was therefore surprised by love;
by a man’s kindness, crooked smile,
large soft hands. This pleasant
passion didn’t make life less
immensely mysterious to her.
Soon love concluded anyway.
He was a restless, ill-focused
fellow. Goodbye to him.
The café didn’t change, or
the avenue. Love like weather
had passed through. She grew
Confusion simplifies:
sun’s a red dot in murk,
boat’s a black patch
on murk, just a spill
of red light lets seeing tell
a difference between one
murk and another. It’s all
a seeming in which morning
looks as vague as thoughts
or the other way around, and
blended seemings compose
a soup which eyes will taste as light,
air, water. A painter makes
one moist concoction seem
like another, and we look at
what seems to have been seen
If you're interested, the mirror
will show a flat, brilliant image
of our lustrous clutter, of much
white flesh draped in black, of
green bottles, brown bottles, other
mirrors, crystal, lanterns, jewels—
glass and gems we’ve arranged
as a barricade against dawn.
The woman behind the bar lets
her gaze wander until you express
your pleasure. She wears black
velvet trimmed in lace, a brooch
depended on a black ribbon,
a golden bracelet on her arm.
After you order, your gaze wanders
to the mirror behind her. There her
I am contained
in the cup of me.
Originally,
it is claimed, we came
from the sea.
Actually,
what emerged were versions
of something that could
turn into us. Nonetheless,
here I am, a full
cup of me,
a compound composed
of me, salt
water modified,
elaborated, prorated,
not quite yet
It seems you must give up your long-term lease
On being right and wronged, righteous and hurt.
No doubt there's someone else who would be pleased
To lord over that haughty piece of Earth.
Move to a cottage of humility,
Cross-breezes, and a pantry full of jars
That hold your faults, preserved for scrutiny.
Live with the wretchedness of who you are.
Chop kindling from the stump of your assumptions,
And ask forgiveness from each simple wall.
It won't be long before you sense resumption
Of basic gratitude for life, for all.
Of course you'll want to pray again, poor sod.
But keep it basic: pray there is a God.
Between granite and sky occurs
the culture of a barn—
a parliament of odors,
treaties of seed.
Every one of those barn-swallows
transports a secret word
under its wing until at dusk
a statement gathers—
a large calling
with accents of loam. Day
utters this immense phrase
to night. The message
concerns entirety.
In my hometown, an avalanche ran over
an empty shack, crossed the highway,
crushed the schoolhouse. The children
were all home eating boiled peas,
scratching themselves, wanting to go
outside in the snow once more before
bedtime. That evening’s event ended
schooling in the town. Children ever
since have traveled twelve miles to go
learn in the next town.
Cameras remembered the sight
of snow versus building. People
would recall the sound without
describing it. They couldn't go
around talking about how loud
snow could be—how long the sound
With such fashioned metal and wood,
he didn’t mean to leave his mark, imprint
“Tam.” Mostly he was building shelter,
earning wages, securing premises. Also,
he was one to impress his will on
the present, not the future. That
rubbed handle nonetheless bears
an inadvertent mark only his palm
could have left. This other handle’s
darkened by days, by years, of perspiration,
his specific salts. This mechanism here—
he repaired it himself. Note his deliberate,
improvised way, the practical jazz
of rural labor, making things keep
functioning when parts aren’t available
right away. This workshop is cold.