Untitled

“Well, goodnight anyway,”

As he struck those words

The sway of the chisel in his hand

As he struck those words

Beneath the hammer and into

The stone of his mind.

(Forever those last three words

Without lust the last things

He said to her)

Then the telephone in its silence.

And before this they had been

To every place.

In staircases.

In narrow hallways.

In green streets hairy with trees.

In shores of saltwater lakes.

In a desert place where nothing grew against

The rust of the colors.

But now arrived here, this emptier

Place at the end of a silent conversation.

Drop the phone. Take a drink.

Well here we are.

With all the time in the world

To make good on things

That were better not.

The Dancer Eye

And then with his little ‘time heals all’ dance,

Stuck his feet onto the stage

Facing the fear of the audience.

They all watched him crouch from the curtain,

And gasped with the way he took his jump.

His body a fearless hello.

Fingers straight as orchids.

Wobbles where they belong.

The very night itself a shoulder.



- This is me of late. Stepped out into the oncoming

Traffic which is morning. Without grace -



My darling, you are not an eagle.

You are a photograph of a Vespa:

Although I own the image, I do not

Own the item. My darling, you are

Not a sheet. You are a jar filled

With clean water: a vessel for

The only thing that matters.

My darling, you are not waking eyes.

You are a harp in a battle: a ghost sound

That I hear for years.



Have I been foolish? Then I have

Walked around in a foolish way feeding pigeons.

Have I been foolish? Camping along a frozen shore

In August while friends swim the Bras D’Or.

Have I been foolish? Spending the summer

Curled around your little feet and listening for

The whisper of your voice.



And these the dancer sees moving through

The window’s world. Trips around the studio.

The radio cranked up and drunk.



It was not our time for these lives to join their

Pursuits and strings. Rather the wind pulled us only a little,

Then scuttled the cans, the leaves, the junk,

The humanity of the alley into the places

From far away to far away.

The Concessions

I stray into older and
Older time that comes by order
Through year and another year.
The grips (the teeth) of the gears
Strip. The zinging it sounds like.
*Yes your ears and ears go
*Until you can only hear the punctuation,
*The look on faces.

As the gears go - they let you know they are
Going and slip out of the door one
At a time
Into the nightwoods ducking
Through brush until they reach the
Stream where trout do not see them
In their sleep -

The rest of it.
The whole damn mechanism.
It slows into a slow machine.
It is a turn of the century photograph of
Complicated belts and valves in a
Steam driven window-maker's dangerous shop.

I look outside. I can smell the sweet coal-burning
Smell of the engine. I feel the cap on my head.
It's sunlight and I'm wearing longsleaves.

What they do not tell say is that
It is peaceful. You may sit
With a blanket on your lap.
Rest your arms on the armrests.
There is only now time to enjoy
That it is warmer than you like.
And to sit without being hungry
Or without need.

The rest of everything is small.
It rests on the deck of a ship.
It is small. It looks small
As it tacks out towards the sea.

And behind - the crackle of a burning sound
That approaches here.
This place I am.
Stretching hands out behind you
Feeling flecks
Of the heat

Of the heat
On its approach.