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 daresay
Than the whole of their subjects pockets fray’d!
Or words of puppets made sweet to gain a vote,
With the bitter tail of poor poetry rote.
Once wrote, is not the hand quick to set aside
The quill, no more a part than a butcher’s blade?
Truly, the sin of man is not found in fall,
Yet in falling apart, as Autumn’s wind all
The leaves does separate, we gather not
enjoin’d, in parts succumb’d to drops–we rot.
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 with compunction
Threatens to collapse.
Then – a gasp! A bloodied sky lulls me to your side,
As you arise.
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 a life of candle passing candle passing…
As only amphibians know.
Skin peels back to bleeding thistles,
Cracked as ice in sadness,
Joints swollen to the size of a poet’s head
Which snow burns dark.
It is not the flame, the fire
But the burn that reminds me
Of insufferable you and how much
I need you to live.
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 to spit,
what with all of their confidence
such beautiful sculpture.
Outside, a mint plant that won’t thrive,
envious of fast-growing
clover, expanding, choking,
veils its few tender leaves, slowly
withering in the shade.
Once, I tore at the attacker-
a true mint-Messiah-
only to discover
would-be disciples are best kept,
at least some what, in the dark.
She is a flower that nobody wanted,
receiving more in her days of death
than the ten thousand in which she lived
hidden beneath the world’s most beautiful weeds.
We try, we do, to see the sun rise, the azaleas yawning against the new day, the waters gathering like cocaleros hovering over the valley’s rim, but eventually and always our eyes turn to the dry, cracked ground, and the deep pink succulents crawling from underneath the devouring centipedegrass.
Why did it take this woman’s death to give her a moment’s fleeting voice, already more dissipated than last nights dreams?
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.