Winedust and Lamplight
a ghost of ink- dust just here then brushed off the page by distant hand ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ memories smeared on the emptiness wines of crimson light, a back, a tombstone, the stillness of rabbits I remain with dreams of the poem, on the clotted streets, bluejays haunting the first chilly skies ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ cold pines in the graveyard bricks in the mist. I linger under bridges where the goblins of memory huddle their mouths grinding in silent rant echoes from sleep remain like a voice from across the river ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I read in libraries of glass and dust poems, mothwings, crumbling bookmarks spill from the huge volumes of silence stacked high on shelves of broken light and though rain falls like ink morning aches in empty notebooks ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ mist rising lingering chill trash, ducks; light unsteady shadows on the pavement under the dead sky home a pot of soup a bottle of whiskey a walk among the asters, grey days, this moon of last poems ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the poem is a shadow cast on the mind in a notebook of dust the phosphorescent dregs of an old mad wine it is rain beloved lamps a face in an empty room tears, salt, those sweet old days images of a hand holding a grape of light ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ moon on the porches in the alleys bite of coffee in hours of recollection a shadow a weed an untoward silence a paring down of everything till I breathe in pure ghost • dead streets, gravel, trash ancient machines insect rasp of skin on bone a few hairs time to get drunk blown away with the gossamer the shadows light itself • I dwell in this lull this inkwell between trees, clouds, breasts lost among the dark houses there was a lamp of luminous hands hair in the night the red Oh of a mouth • the world shivers, crows waken between hours, streets, suicides ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I get up early enough to watch the night ending things and colors spilling out henna, rose, coal, gold I think of women who have graced my moments tresses fall, hills unfold cities flash off and on I hobble to the kitchen for more coffee ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a beautiful mouth the remains of these words at the heart of the day glow of peach and dew where the poem lives gold parchment full of meteors radiant plums lips feasting on the drunken verses ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ grey Sundays call up bridges and rivers behind the low murmur of insects oblivion's white skin is wet with reveries of city rains neon-drenched hands opening heavy windows to let in street sounds there is a distant breath of blank skies, silver on silver the coming winter is everywhere ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ink dust, wine dust Japanese lanterns in a white bowl lace memories of women morning leaf shadows on an old door dawn lines of a face the wren sings, wishes still linger faintly dark pages flutter in a slow insect light ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a second cup of espresso I savor its taste in my mouth for an hour windows and shadows begin talking to me. I reach for a pear, an ankle a breath of gold the moon blackens pages turn to lead ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ butterfly dust in the light deep silver of minutes music, honeycomb, teasel stillness, the sky cracks in the windows old faces in a cup of tea spiders and millipedes like jewels bells ring in books deer rise from the rivermists disappear into nothing ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ hours pass like clouds through the autumn stillness a cat sits in the rain I rant into the dark gulphs of Earth blue asters turn to ice at the core of the word is a cold star the light does not move • the dusk is all stone and mercury leaves turn black in the grass branches scrape at metal awnings ghosts pour in from the kitchen as if from space a lone katydid calls and calls to the porch lamp the deer leave their shadows on the street ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ crickets sing on a cold morning green tea steeps a shaft of sunlight carries the dust of a million years poems accumulate as I disappear ghosts and demons remain in every corner, under all the carpets, behind the thermostat it's midSeptember leaves gather themselves on the porch I set the cup down and watch the steam rise like white silk as I begin scribbling away in the grey margins of the day