583

582

581
There is an organic softness in this skin
Smooth in its smallness.
Writ large it is invisible,
A ghost of a sea
Itself ghost and on,
As mirrors counterviewed.
But it rises here in the indolent
Observer's frame, palm
To kindred groove.

580

579
On a bed of razor edged
Grass we draw red thin lines
As our angels.
As ice burns the fine
Slivers, a notable
Passage marked
In a sedulous heart.
The dune slopes up, just so, green dressed
And held. The partner sea is there.

578

577

576

575

574
An hour's addition to the unfated
Measure: a blue market
Square awned and cinnamon
Cries of routine contending joy.
The wine is tart and bitter
A part of this short allowance
Here; your dark eye, this loaf,
That net sea fragrant.
We must smile for the air, the sun,
Our imbricated loss,
The meet hazard of the stone,
The strutting birds aimless
In their span's aim. And the hour, all, done.

573

572

571

570

569

568
These are slow seizings of the air,
Or slips into it as silk
Flame, in hours unmoved
Rampant hesitant,
As troubled memory unfolding.
At dawn still: a larger smallness in the tree.

567

566

565

564

563
A temporary roost of common ravens
In storm-paused day's flashed
Tableau: a sea stirred
Black iridescence--
Strange ghosts in the afterimaged
Eye, blinked to rain.


*idea of first line from Chris Clarke, faultline.org post 4/9/08

562

561

560
Fifty springs and two
The paper rose on the green skirt
Is a day,
And my eye religion,
Itself praising.
The hip-swerved lake's
Beckoning edge is a chance frame
To this signal scene--
Its interpretation, icon.

559
The sun by's nature stretches out a blind force
And beauty's metric births from such source
Fined in every coarse
Whole in every part.

In all craft some piece may turn an art
And all terminations be but a start,
As in the carapace stirs a faint heart
Scanting nothing but a matrix to find,

That truth has her glances, mendacity blind
And in all seeming difference lies a weft in kind,
And too that summation may be but the rind.
From the first starry spray to a mind that looks back

Till finally it contemplates hitting the sack.

558

557

556
Calamity enough in a paper-twist
Scrap of prayer
Spun to the number of your days.
In this wheel
Be all my sins remembered.