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Dave Bonta
if I make filth and love
from that horse the body
I think myself obliged
to think myself happy
and not forget the winds that come
only to entertain us
a choir of voices buried
in one infinite chapel
a window is better than an absence
which disgraces the stone
awake I was angry
to sleep is to give way
my breath in the window
of the bookseller’s
some books sing
some give me a home
this fast city made of lead
is not the only answer
the truth is dangerous
having so many windows
if I escape I will be a thief
and sleep brokenly in the morning
if I should die I shall use it
as an ordinary window
seeing the boys playing
in our back yard
on a pleasant evening
at the beginning of a quarrel
I would be glad to not wonder
to see but not discern the poor
or in my breast cold justice
in a broken window
knocked up
rising to the window
moon
shine on her lip like
a light supper
prettily done for the common way
the road cost me my wife
who has a mind
to understand each window
here is the terrestrial
here painted as life
here at home people sit up longer
before their ash
morning laid out
over all the ships
a child drums merrily
on the window
light found a little table
with one joint of meat
and dressed it in gold
I would’ve been glad to doubt all things
but joy is great in me
like the fear of death in a king
under my yes the sand may give way
I open my window God help me
to the sight of unsufferable torment
not to speak but to stay present
after a rupture
with the usual ease and sleep
only the flesh
that embassy
from a world with no future
only such a simple window
could keep secret the very story
we dissect
I make a window into my cellar.
My cellar is full, a land where I have
a French cook and a horse—
black, but a perfect courtier.
My daughter would rather marry a crow.
I find the worst fears.
I shuffle out to the yard
with my dish and cup
and speak to the sun
like a clock
or a bare window.