Nettle our cups found in the light
I willed your lungs closed up, & spit from your myth
a god that did not break but breathed against the land
a styled crown. I smell heaven, you say when I turn on the light,
all that cotton & moon & lavender. It’s deadly
how we stare. We look at nothing & we feel so often helpless.
It’s the dark, out there, upending all of my romanticism.
I placed my heart in your rubble, a deep southerly still,
and every fleshy cell just burned away. All that’s left is honey
because the sedge is yours, all of it. A past of approaching
hearkens. Our hands follow what they can follow,
as our thoughts. They, too, coo into the wire.
Pigeons, burning for seed, choke on singed feathers.
I want to fill a plough with our astronomy, & weed
out the great bear of our almost loving. The night turns on
the light & I smell heaven. Someday, I say, we’ll grow
plenty for the cups to dawn & unsettle.
Where white tulips line the stables, where the daffodils are dug up
and replaced by magnolias, where everything smells like rosemary,
we are stratospheres. I wake the storms & bleed the weather
out of words. You commit the air to blooms
in a march of floral crowns. Who wouldn’t
bask in such suggestion or cry flat out for them?
We were dancing, at first glance, rooting
the land in breath, a reincarnation that soiled our tongues
with lying. Together, a belief, immune, bowed whims.
It was brief, the light, and full of nettles.
I bury your tableau of sainted laughter then ordinate
the grain above everything. I never know for sure what to do
but when the dreams of honest scribes are righteous
there are verses. There, everything is laid bare & only then
we’ll know the naked price of all the angels. Knowing we were always ghosts,
a bell sings slowly.
Disappointment is a Marble Made of Dying Sun
The leaves glitter off the trees loose
like change. And we, too, are loosened.
A month ago I smiled.
Now I watch the sun rise, a stone
that falls unwarming.
Clarity comes in transit—between two places—
in this case, the limbo between seasons:
There is no absolute truth
but that people lie. And also that here,
the dawn sings the world into light.
Does the birdsong of each new hemisphere
light new fire?
And what remains when it’s over? The ash of night
chalky in the mouth of the world.
Sometimes the sun rises orange.
Each remaining leaf on each tree, a tiny flame. I reach
to put each out between dampened fingertips
—the hiss of expulsion—
the world breaks color in an instant
all of the fires going out—even
my skin with every touch,
even the idea of—
This is the moment we fell,
not knowing our light by touch.
O fading light! –
don’t go out. I’m not yet ready
to let go.
The things I know:
would not a marble’s eye ignite.