24 February 2009

Too mortal for this frame,
That boded sky so lightly,
And busied once this winter tree
With all-present contention--
Now--pristine feather--

Is it warranted to say,
After this death, no other.

20 February 2009

The haze at sundown slant
Break that shape anew;
The dryness and the dust--
The fucking dust in every glass--
And hell's term intercalated thus
With such fine grains
As richly inutile as my handed means
To render death its gravity.

[image of Matthew Brady photograph]

15 February 2009

That parenthesis the shadows--
The venetian whisper
Congruent to air touching light,
As if a thought in brackets
Tense for motion
Resides in a shimmer
Complicit with calculation's hidden eye.

10 February 2009

Of circumstance but a part,
Sufficient to a consequential hour's
Span occult--
One infinite within the next,
As primes countless but subsumed--
As end of means precedent.

06 February 2009

If prose were possibilty
The words might trickle Up
To topple at one thought or two
And fill a smallish cup.
A simple vessel would suffice
To hold a liquor odd--
Of sunlight or eternity,
For toiler and a god.
Intoxication with what is
Unseen by daily eye
Is possible's distillation--
Sensibility to descry.