Ten Thousand Drops of Ink

old poems return
to haunt
with their marble voices
of night and time

seedheads of dandelions
fill the windows
the light
like water
on the tongue

catkins and pine needles
gather again
a pheasantT s cry
shadows of deer
in the stubblefields
clouds

of lilacs
and gold azaleas
already faded

into last week's memory
of them


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


sometimes
a change of light
changes
everything
hands on a table
names of the days
coffee
and silence and
outside

the rain





lace curtains
icy star
branch
of redbud
afternoons
of
flesh
wrapped in leaves
of sleep
decades
gathering
in the stillness
of
rose-scented poems
like
remnant snow
beneath my hand


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


the light of so many kitchens
right here
by the flowering apple
caught in the cold shadows
of May's
rain of old thoughts





my fingers
bent around a pen
of dust
as a lone goose
cries across
the blackened sky





looking
for stars and deer
at 5 a.m.
purity
of white dogwood
in the mind
a rabbit
running forever
across the emptiness


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


morning
grey as time
raw summer wind
last night
still drips
no moon
a weird silence
hangs on the yards
a dove coos
and coos in my head





a white moth
sinks into the emerald light
inside the chiming of things
a nuthatch, at the edge of dawn
calls back
every nuthatch of my life





cocoons in winter
hanging on dark threads
the soot of wishes
smeared across the moon
evening's cold candle
on the stovetop
empty kettle in an empty room


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


hard pears
breath of wild mint
on your hands
what do we talk about
hour after hour
leaf-mutters
distant birds
river sounds
here in the glow of ironweed
and memory





at the end
of
my life
i am this



crow
in a dead tree
ink
on a page
of
mist


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


dream of a dream
river
of sleep, oriole
song
this aura
of
timelessness as
everything
ends





a crush
of
suns and berries
the way
light bends the trees
moons and pears
float
crystal
shadows from
nowhere to here


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


passages
of cloud music
in cold persimmon light
teasel heads
where moon and streetlamp meet
steeped in the smell
of apples
cellars
old books

leaping from image to image
as fast as i can


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


listening to the rain
it's all the rains
i've ever heard
years and eaves and awnings
life fades away
i'm uncertain
it was ever there





scents of sage
hair
seedpods
salt and ash
the lightyears flash by
i move like a hummingbird
among these suns


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


voices of leaves
deep in the air
surround me
i crush them to see
moons
buried in ponds
sumac wine
of a hundred frosty hours
fingers of autumn
lift bowls of tea
from the blue





gold fields
turn into crows
summer stays
in a rotting peach
i stare
straight into
the transparent glow
inside the inside of things
pacing, listening
to traffic
and unwritten lines
falling apart letter by letter
sweet tang of death everywhere


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


words
and crickets
ghost sounds on gravel
first full moon of autumn
in this world of tea and mist


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


luminous pavements
at the roots of old trees
nuthatch and icegrey sky
converge
a life in parentheses
dreaming of mars in november
i live for
tomorrow's ink and coffee





first
bitter days
of february
sun buried in concrete
memory a pond
of frozen light
i walk round and round and round


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


gold leaves
under clear ice
the ringing of cobalt days
between fields
the black of crows
bitter snow driven
into the old eyes of winter


centuries blow
through afternoons
words reach their limits
an endless cry in the pines


in the zero gravity
of white pages

breath is porcelain
in the stillness of chimes


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


into a lifetime's hour
of light
and shadow
a drop of silver falls and falls
between stars
where memories are cold stones
the dust of the self
on old windowsills






particles of bird song
empty sound
of winter pages
turning in a distant room
taste of light on dead pines
murmurs of old age
silenced
by a leaf
upon the lips


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


a bluewhite moon
unfolds
beneath the ink
when the world
is frozen to a lamp
a wish
the mouth of the page


naming
all this
strangeness
i take rough notes
ceaselessly
zeroes of ice
that echo soundlessly
black plums
in some/quiet universe



willing to believe anything
that can't possibly happen
i hear sleet
chittering to the weeds
i drift in huge blanks
among all these idiot words


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


snow melts
off december's marble back
the gravity of sleep lingers
the taste of wet leaves on old streets
hours littered with dead
muses




morning dusk
the fissure between light and silence
fleeting brilliance
of the black dust of galaxies
holding on to the page



unfolding
from dreams
deeporange crystal
behind the trees
what does not exist
is infinite



wind down the rails


snow falling forever


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


alchemies
               of clear
ink
conjure this tonnage
of
phrases
          quivering
between
bamboo and candlelight

white alphabets of ghostflesh
gather
on the other side of language



dark scent of light
pear
from long ago
clouds of moss across

all skies
and faces
still
the glass shadowfall
of
petals


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


a  petal
a feather
a shaft of light
the mind
         fainting
into
the infinite brevity
of
things





muse
of fits
and starts
seamless angel
the sky on its knees
at the bottom of nights
mouth foaming with galaxies
Poetry
an unheard noise
between
process and composition and
the cold constellations of silent
texts


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


lyre-dust
           of
broken skies
a cloud of birdsong
in my head
             a pure
crystal-drop
               of memory
frozen
at the end of a gutter
in


the white zero of days
somewhere
between a sentence and
a dream
            trees glitter
in a seance


of ice and doves and the unwritten


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


on
these daunting pages
where
a mouth of snow opens
into
the dark grass, sealed
in the blue
           of winter days
lost childhood
returns
like
dead starlight
               in empty
spaceships





beyond
this dew and honey
of
suns,
sleep, wet leaves,
traffic
geese, the world
we call it
and the chimes of death, tinkling
everywhere


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


half-heard
music of unseen
gestures
         where
words come from, a hand
days later,
resting in mine
like a flower opening to catch
a fire falling
                 through
the snowy dark





amidst
these gravel heaps and
blocks
      of concrete
this bone cold of the unattainable
ashen tongue
            against
ashen tongue, an alphabet
mystical
as the afterthought
of mint and rasberry in December


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


cling, just barely
to
the edges of clouds
shadows
the town frozen over
with


bells of silence
as
all sounds
dwindle down
wet streets
into phrases of sublime extinction


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


deer
stare across
uncrossable trees
light murmurs to icicles
after wind, breath
a myth returning
with
the smell of old books
a
million years of
yearning
         childhood





glimpses
of
pink
nothingness
between moons
and leaves of incense
a gold cricket singing
farewells
to the flesh
poems
the unfinished silk
of
days


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


silver shiver
of
transparent lace echoes
the endless hush
an
empty mouth, hovering in
a
phosphor of utterance
spilling
out of a broken vase,
this
glittering of verse




underneath
each pleated word
a
new oblivion
a moment that perishes
so quickly
in a cloud of blue doves
rising
from the dead leaves
of
eternity


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


breath bridges
old leaves
first violets
faces of snow, trees and sky
join the pages
holding fast
to a faint and distant cry
a black candle flame
emerging from oblivion






a dark feather
an iron sigh
brown cemetery weeds
i follow the sleet
into the city of old age
wind combs out
the long white hair of winter


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


tree
full of noise
black cloud of paragraphs
over
the witchy fields
dreamreal rain comes
dogs bark
i go home to cinnamon
books
the halfsleep of poetry



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