Saturday, December 27, 2014



The priest slept through my confession
so my words went straight to sky
the little sky inside the heart I feel you here
the sentimental sinner cried the ferry left
the harbor suffused with nightingales from somewhere else
stop being continuous already the truth is made of broken glass
rose petals we nibbled from the rocks
quotations from Montaigne a clamshell cracked
a cardinal singing from what is that an apple tree
the day left-handed the ragged sky Guantanamo
clouds can only tell so much but more than we
there is a cruelty in America we must delete. 


Try against the cruel cry we have rights but no right
what sunrise does to morning glass you do to me
the sentimental agents spoil our feed
all that nostoc dripping from the night
listen to the cupboard the dishes tell the story too
the star-sperm settling slowly while you sleep
and the cup left in the sink to soak the herb stains out
each thing knows some part of the situation
the battered hulk this boat you call the truth
leaking its way from Portugal full of opera singers
priestesses on hilltop canoodling with the dawn
this vessel trembling in my civil hands.


This is the dawn of ceremony the clement word
when all men and women open their mouths and say
the truth that only they can know each one a part of 
we need them all we need them all to speak
until every man and woman is a prophet we know nothing
leave piety learn prophecy say what you don’t know
each one has words enough to know what he doesn’t know
they don’t all have to love you they just have to speak
language will not really work till everyone has spoken
then we’ll really learn what language means
the secret god hid from herself when no one created the world
back before even this argument our life began. 


The hear of the message is proportionate to the anatomy of the angel
or are there no numbers up there
or nothing but numbers in heaven
pause for breath even those who are not breathing
she walks down the street and everybody understands
that’s what a sky is for to trap the light and spread it
so we can breathe, the wolf can prowl
the square perfect pixels make everything unreal
unreal as it really is dream about me
in the long Pacific nights and I will change
I will be whatever you intend I will dig
gold plates out of your hill and give them to you.