Blank Book
green ink of twigs
fragile hours so late
in the year
where we sit
in day's last corner
of bird calls
then,
autumn, then,
snow,
then the muse
of frozen leaf piles
crying
for an untouchable
blankness
as though
everything never happened
a dove rises forever
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
where
eyes of moss look up to
stars that don't exist
i watch
the light years burn up
the crumpled pages
tossed
across this endless room
at the end of each line
writing
myself to the silence
of concrete
in the dead of night
motes
and
particles swirling
here
in this nowhere
of
afternoon's shock of light
until
the day is late
on winter hills
with
the glory of dead
cattails
asleep
again by the fading
lamp of
everything
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
through
rains of ice
by
the pond of no memory
a
sumac glaze
dust of the dust turning
to dust
on a hand at rest
across
the trellis
of quiet afternoons
until
the ethereal melancholy
of nights
awake
listening
to the ring of snow
the sound
of ghosts giving birth
to ghosts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
gleam
of that absent, pitted
silence
the inconceivable
page,
a cold wicking
away
of breath on mirrors
universe of whiteness
forever
speechless
under
this weight, the possible
the word alone
at ten
degrees i
listen
to the breath of doves
breaking
among the stones
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in clear light
remains of a voice
a paper ghost
the poem's mist
distilled
to this
sound of a tree
after
the wind has died
images turn
into
themselves, cliches sink
into the unimaginable
the writing
goes on and on, unstoppable
starling garble
so what
if i lose my way
among these infinite syllables
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
an eye of light
in
a pile of dust
the ancient doves the dead suns
bone
salt:
and soot
a pen scratching
at the surface of sleep
lines
in quick short thrusts
loneliness of the image
for itself
in a
bowl of snow filled with birdsong
lamps lit
on smokedark days that drift
off
into the pines
under the crows
i mutter on
about moth-holes
winter willows
the horrible croakings of the old
i dog
the lines
until there is nothing left but
words
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the world
pine needles
silver lace
snail shells
crows, wind
old cocoons
dark weeds
grey moons
of
hair
in this twilight
gravity
ice and skin
verse shivering
like
winter galaxies
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
junco
on the roof
a beetle clinging to old rust
empty pools
smokestacks, orange leaves
a billion years of novas
shimmering, here,
on this
apple leaf
waking i wonder
what
happened to the night
its
harp music of snow and wind
as in this familiar room
page
after page falls
asleep
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
dawn's
grace of snow, phantom
lace
of trees and the streets
between,
glowing
as if
Poetry didn't exist
in
these signs of extinction
i plummet into brilliance
under
a skirt of syllables
glory of the
fragment, where fingers
of
ink caress some meaningless
beauty
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
anthracite
bluebells
winter wrens
10,000 dragonflies in a September dusk
memory
piled
on memory
in cloud towers
reaching
to
nowhere
forever
stars of breath
in the frozen
fields
chimaeras
beyond the sun
glass bells ringing under
the ice
with the clarity
of destroyed pages
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
poems are shadows
moving across the sky
crashlanding on helmets
quills
robots
dead star vessels
over the moon of old wishes
i stand and rant
in silence
to the subzero world
this weight of ashes
ink and fog
a grain of sugar
a star unearthed
trees in their world
poetry's cicada forever
unhatched
doves like smofefee
under the powerlines
breathed out of a ghostly mouth
soot like witch's hair
falling from these broken images
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
candleflesh burns
in a phosphor of signs
exhalations of a language unknown
the radiance of lyrics
as they collapse into traces
of silence, images of
pearls, prose, black tears
to be conscious of oblivion
white star of bliss
under the dark soul of the pine
just the wind
nothing behind it
but a ghost breathing
blue
ash of evening's
opium
of reveries
auras
seizures
over this field of weeds
this beautiful mist
the owl of an invisible sun
flies out of the trees
that sparkle silver
in the fairylands of Death
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
what
words back down what
throat
of
silence?
scorched alphabets under ice
trying to breathe out
of lungs turning to glass
i mean
the cry of everything
utterances
gasps
stabs
sounds made turning over in sleep
purity of the fragment
the genius of dead pages
vocabularies imploding into moonlight
sticks
old hair
the trashed scrolls of discarded
sorceries
these idiot lines
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in shadowlight
where the glittering fades
ink of frozen books
jade of old snow
this grey moon of silence
caught in my throat
somewhere
between come and
go
this and
that
rooftops fall away
to moss
hours open and close
with the sound of
moth
wings
snow on snow
light on light
music of dove wings
dissolving into the blue foam of days
moon after moon
of farewells to this world
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
syllables
bitten on the tongue
to sift
the dust of testaments
oracles
this litter of skin
broken
alphabets
rain
on empty Sunday streets
a faraway
voice
heard like
snow
in mirrors
melting into dawn
the torn
silk
of a memory
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in domes of
light
under
awnings of gold
clouds
follow their shadows
across the moon
bones chime on bones
among galaxies
fingertips
hidden wishes
lilac buds
silences pass over me
like mercury and hair
the afterglow
of sudden rain
the faces left in empty rooms
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
echoes
of autumn
a pheasant, a fountain
of grass
an orchard
of
moons
unending opals
of ink
i hold on
to a twig of breath
a finger of light
the grace of the never to be written
curtains
of broken
sleep
layering and unlayering
the sound of words out there
beyond the moon
gold pearls
falling
on the dead leaves of our flesh
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
streets of lace
under light-chimes
windows of mist
the darkened lamp post
under a lost star
i drink coffee, wait
do
nothing
small birds jump around
in the hard white rain