from (ת) Tekiah Gedolah [Dream-script Sonnets]

Driving          the high lights forward          into a winter white out
‘my only          swerving’          in mind          stupidly          deepening
the emblazoned ice.          And now the second season’s here.          ‘I am
looking at trees.’ Skeptical. Trying out flooded words.          Is it possible
or righteous          to remain          in a constant state          of praise.          How
many birds. Exist.          The sky          a chorus full of ‘black
and screaming leaves.’ And even the singular — a crow. Breaking.
Who names you. Rounded wings lengthening as your body
slims. Incident light refracted into iridescence. As the scroll turns.
And the third season arrives. And I read the book you gifted us.
And the book of the book. The echo. Too. I read even the space
between each seed of rain          each frozen letter that covers
the ‘earth in forgetful snow          feeding a little’ murmuring life.
‘Oh lucky’ little          cinematic life. I seem          to see          to be suffering.

//

The bird in the house is a bird in a book. Worth a poem.
Not the book of the dead. Or the book of love          ‘long and boring.’
Or the book of conjoined twins. Or the book of brutalist
architecture. Or the book where the bird is a god or the god is a bird.

Or a herald on a carved clock.          Are you reading in the dark. Are you dead.
The bells that can ring          ring and ‘there is a crack          a crack          in everything
that’s how the light gets in.’ Through the dust motes          past the ghosts
downwind. Who doesn’t dance. ‘Knives          all flashing. Hair all streaming.’

Sun streaking. Oh          wild g-d. The problem with imaging. Engine idling.
In chile          the people crowded          the streets. To protest. To insist.
To say no. To say yes.          To pass. Stop. Open          the rusted door. Steel
flakes. Though the hinges          still hinge. Exit the vehicle. Cueca.

The shibboleth. Be the white bee. Who doesn’t worship a wall. Who shakes
down the house of praise. Shutters. See you          in the dirt. Love.          Look.

//

The doctor tapped my forehead and said the pain you feel
is really here. The nerve damage here. And I could not swallow. Estaba
furioso/a.          Now and still now.          The myelin stripped.
Aflame. Still. Now. Beating against the overwhelming presence

of all this nowness.          Can your cry          be heard          across the earth.
Now.          Still.          Should my entire body          being          tremble
with praise. Please. So          you can breathe.          Easily. Truthfully.
Are you in for the drift. Look.          I can look          Anywhere. Turn

toward or away. With you. Not the same if paging through an arbus
or parks folio          and/or are taken in by          the reflection          of eyes.
Now and still now.          Where are you. Are you          the punctum          the spirit
the accident          which ‘pricks’          and ‘bruises.’ The we          that is they says

look at our children eating fistfuls of grass. Ask. How can you live
with burning trees          burning bodies          smoke in our damaged cells.

//

I believe in many of my own failings. Believe          them inexcusable.
But the lonely          loaded with loneliness          ‘wearing the face’
preserved          ‘in a jar          by the door’          like sisyphus
cannot put the dream-script to sleep.          Keep          eating. Keep
shitting. ‘I know what I am doing.’ ‘The plum blossoms falling.
Of course. Flowing. Downstream on black water. Merrily. Pink petal
by white petal. Scent of all          sweet fruit. Latchkeyed to wind. We call
the last letter          the seal          but the seal          is off. So. How to bring
you to an ending. And here I am talking to the book of the book
or to an instantiation of the self.          How          to. Close          the open mouth
with which I began. To love. The white-throated sparrows alter the hook
of their song.          Tree of life. Your threaded leaves shutter. As they mirror.
The word          without echoes          echoes          differently          each moment
but only when I try          to leave you          to write you          into          and out of