94.
This is what happens to music when it
starts telling stories
how could it not be that’s why I grew
up with
Franz Kline sunrise over East River a
girl from Ecuador
I saw the color size of a man’s reach
stories fall out of the light
tells them into new situations: these are the colors
all the way from red to violet and
beyond
I come from Tenth Street just like
everybody else
another fin another siècle the boys
come marching home
the girls run away through the apple
blossoms
nothing changes the sickle sweeps the
moon away
the dark mumbles stories to its lone
self.
95.
Lay so nary hiding in her underpass
heed here such traffic over who in
arches dwell
failing Lascaux, we did it for the
silence
no air no sound or molecules of meaning
less plausible than spirit kinds
some unregistered messengers of sense
I touch you now despite the faraway
for every skin is weeks away as India
no matter where the boat is going
there is a better way of getting
there
takes longer tastes more pleasure on
the way
queen of heaven in her mandorla slips
into every me.
