Back to that place he walks to gaze upon the opening buds
Of Laurel’s rose whose nods in the wind to him talks
With words that no longer are meant for his aged ears.
Filling with salt-less tears, he feels himself stronger
Than this world has left him— brittle yet not enough
To break— and so arises, bitter to youth’s new flower,
Mustering all his power descends, rejects all guises
Of decline heaved upon his soul by the spinning
Rage which clips every wing born to flight ‘low the sun,
Amongst trees forbidden to those whose time has passed.
Fragrance as a green sprite makes drunk this now wasted
Man with memories tasted once upon a delight,
Imbibed by greyish thoughts dazzled in flowers’ pink
He cups his hands and drinks flowing sap in deep draughts
‘Til dark eyes, senescent seal, for youth’s poison drank.
Out of the valley
Up the green hillside
Down into the forsaken space
Stands a forest of skeletons
Whose deep roots
Whose deep roots
Came up dry.
I like to sit here
Under cracking bones
To hear them tell how they arrived
How they were awakened by man
Sowing them
Sowing them
Who knows why.
Digging deep deep down
They drank from the earth
Growing tall and strong as giants
Their leaves did dance in mountain wind
Reaching up
Reaching up
To the sky.
Then the men moved on
And the clouds shut up
Their leaves and beauty withering
As their smooth skin cracked in the sun
All alone
All alone
Did they die.
Out of the valley
Up the green hillside
Down into the forsaken space
Stands a forest of skeletons
Whose deep roots
Whose deep roots
Came up dry.
Maybe we can’t give hope. Maybe the most we can do is join the hopelessness of the hopeless and together try to arise from this Pit hand in bleeding hand.
From this steppe of dearth
parched earth
and playing spoons
she swoons
in his mirth
With a clatter falls
his calls
and too late sees
she knees
behind shawls
Where once she would sleep
she weeps
too late a cry
with sigh
moves to reap
A pool of stale dream
no gleam
for heavy loss
and toss
all that seems
pale under this firm
full term
lies upon earth
gives birth
to a worm.
You would have me see my sin and fly from it.
But Constance wrapped in grass
creates distraction
dancing in the yard
dripping dew
so that being a worm
is not so bad.
I would have you safe in my pocket.
But just your coming near
cover disappears
running from this shame
falling down
so that making you mine
is not so good.
We would both havenothave what is (not) so
But gods often collide
constantly riding
shining at the black
slipping hands
so that being as one
is not so.
never knowing,
always sowing,
growing empty,
stop.
