eremacausis

A stair­case always goes down, never up. Winged bats and books snatch­ing up dreams as they pass by And you would think it was a hunt But it’s not. Acci­den­tal destruc­tion, we have to make up sto­ries To tell us oth­er­wise. Sto­ries, fic­tion, blurry tapes­try on blank walls all around. I hear the huat huat of …

Those crys­talline orna­ments I knew as a child Don’t cover up any­thing in this dry, hate­ful heat; No merry-lolling in these streets— Some­where, a deep-throated war­bler, insa­tiate, sighs. This is what I was told would hap­pen —har­bin­ger Of clogged cloaca and those unfin­ished night­mares That dis­ap­point and leave one bare Before new day’s start and …

There is a cat lying in the dirt, Curled against dawn’s spread­ing thighs— His neck, a futile crow­bar between Gravel scratch pad and placid chine. Feet advanc­ing, step­ping down the curb Through steel dogs towards those hated Moments, mind behind over­ly­ing Humus throne aside tar-striped Day’s king. I covet this peace­ful rule Amidst stone and …

That drops, falling and gath’ring, shud find it not But nature to enjoin, while man, tho’ he ought Fol­low suit, cer­tainly falls in every way Known– join­ing indeed! Though enjoin­ing? ‘Tis nay. Take, for a show, that act call’d mat­ri­mony, A catcher of dreams from the West, made holy By men in crown. More holey I …

Dusk, expan­sive as your eyes, blinks. A door opens wider let­ting in rapidly van­ish­ing stars, And you, at my side, lay in repose. A chal­ice drawn behind a veil Bodes a tear­ful night. The shouts of neigh­bour­hood dip­so­ma­ni­acs Cut dumb by silent echoes, Are matched by the beat of a sick dog’s tail. The air, laden …

I found you once in adul­tery, next in shame. A flame has no place in this cold. A row of gen­tle­men lin­ing up Under the cover of night beside death Closer com­ing they to the breath that burns Than I, naked in this north­ern wind. All these peo­ple, roam­ing from home to home Waxed and wean­ing, Into …

I am jeal­ous of the brave ones who know well how she smells the lady of the night, and can dis­tin­guish the sub­tleties of anguish, of despair. While pusil­lan­i­mous I here can’t stand to be alone, unable to dis­cern a friend­ship from an imple­ment, res­ig­na­tion from wait. When they do it, every­one turns to mar­vel at their guile; they make me want …

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 …

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 …