Out of the Sky Falls
the rented room and sofa with plants along
the window Paintings of fish golden and
open-mouthed hang on the wall that winter
An ice storm overturns tins of frozen seed
Birds do not eat
Still there is moving around to be done—
cardinal stiff on the snow at dawn
gone by noon
Looking through fern on the windowsill I get ideas
fronds curling above the blue sofa
sunny flesh swimming the walls
and folding in.
Consider How They Grow
—this same hill was rough, unkempt, and the grotto primitive
Declaring her heart a lily, a koi, an integral organ of earth, she turned
to the elders who stared as if she were mud for they ranked themselves
monolithic and complete. The oldest entities around. So, of course,
she puzzled over such regressive insult to the mountains, their mineral-
riddled status. Like juts on Mt Rushmore, none of these beings would
crack a grimace. Some dangled dogma, others roped friends to the summit.
No one took note of the elegant gap between spin and toil—surface
dervish dance of the lilied field, then the toil from down to darker down
Vertical solidarity Not a soul to copy or infiltrate Three on the terrace
hold the posture of dawn—heart skyward oracle of a green middle world.
Red wolf moon, packs of thou-shalt-eat
howl through the snow, overtake the sled,
rip fingers from a man’s hand (sinful
little fingers, at that—and wicked too those
juicy biblical parts made to be chastised). Script-
ure drools and rolls over for here come those
twitchy recurring regressions through sex, greed,
and bedlam till it’s back-to-wolf-You(too)-go,
O upright one, who at better moments thinks itself
first and foremost, especially while writing poetry.
Hey you over there with the quick-silver tongue
and pink erasers, always wanting one more eternity?
Check out this forever and always—highlight those
spaces between two a.m. to six—fanged clips of dream
dread: those stuck on screaming bloody murder
scream some more, knowing how to fall from burning
towers. They fall for them, or leap. Chop go croc’s
timely antique teeth. Hour of the Baboon, one sage
named it. Dawn cocktails with the red-bottomed
and mad for more. Enter here to ravish any animal
puzzle that can’t complete itself. Wolfkin and spiritus
mundi roast together at the stake, leaving you
(me/all of us) without blame. And with nothing
to blame, what else on earth is there to do?