Sunday, February 1, 2015



Infant voices shrill to cry for help
soaked by Niagara to understand Canadian
the doctor complained I failed to signal pain
fall deepest in love with whatever you don’t know
release the sky from labor let the light alone
something to steer by only one horse on the island
this glass of water that I proved
ran through all the rivers of the world to get to you
every word is an exaggeration
I saw a trickle of wine on the Savior’s chin
I waited and everything revealed just keep talking
those who saw her knew enough to look away.


There is another story I’m not allowed to know
I’m reading one book the story’s in another all the time
the Empty Story I need above all deeds
the ordinary mind knows the story best
the skeleton who sings the ribcage knows how to think
o neurons mother of my little world
Hölderlin’s roses bloomed last month some still linger
these gulls seem to be asleep as they fly
like the swallows of Lacoste who sleep all night in midair
where Mary of Magdala saw them first and cried
so that her Husband looked up too and spoke
everyone will rise again and none fall back.


In the garden of the undecided
raptors quick in surf to dive a cormorant
quarrying the sea
the end of matter is an ardent remember
words change their clothes for winter
a fugue is never far
it is an honest man who says such things
refuted by the first green tide
merciful fog hiding colors in plain sight
once a lost battalion stumbled on a black lake
thousands of cranes in a pearly mist
and knew they had come home.