1250

1249

In the subduing dark
The petals are ghosts of another hour--
Sunlight silk within
Casting shadows of day
In the larger depth.
Solicitude is the hue
Of these things at night
Pink flowers turning blue
In this sad companion's sight.

.
In the subsuming dark
The cherry is a ghost without,
To sensual brief
A suited partner.

1248

1247

1246

1245

1244

1243

1242
Gilgamesh
Don't ride the bike today
Don't ride for Death
He has shaped this thing
To his purpose.
And Gilgamesh opened his mouth
To his thought gave form
I have no purpose
No purpose but to live
To ride is my purpose.

[in memory of John Gardner]

1241

1240

1239

1238
It's curious as time the night air
As language across
Lip and brow
Touch then gone--
A place but not a place,
A face made soft by air

In no space of time.

1237

1236

1235
Surrender what is held you secret self--
What weight's identity
Without your small purview?
You atrium bird skyless shot-winged,
Lighter air's beyond the glass,
Though of the self-same stuff.

1234

1233

1232

1231

1230

1228

1228

1227

1226
Then we would be mortals
Without the spacious love
Of desire out of sense--
Yet this part caressed,
And that, innermost.
To fretless play in nature's tune
Was deathless, or seemed so.

1225

1224
The still strands moved by subway light
And angled neck
As disturbed mercury run like a bolt
From brow to nape,
From point, contour.
A glance to block another's gaze,
Who'd gauge a depth by surface
And tell a gesture
Beyond the scope of ink.

1223

1222

1221

1220

1219

1218
In the storm the swinging
Trees tune the wind
To that seashell space of emptiness moving,
Where out is inside
Gusting through marrows of sky
And bruised air.
The force mending vacuums
Undoes old roots and veins delicate
Stretch in the following calm.

1217

1216

1215

1214

1213
As trumpets the ashes
Shrewdly sound and keening
Grief's borrowed perception
Phantom-limbed, old
Apneas of love
Sensed thus scarred
By the diamond blue
Metal shavings gullet-lodge
Of death's finality.
Spread from my palm's arc,
Dust--this nothing has returned.

1212

1211

1210

1209
The austere piety of March
Becomes its vestements,
New-moist with old matter--
Prayers once galed
Through bent tree now,
With whispers chill-piteous,
Hiss of winter's eternal soul.

1208

1207

1206

1205

1204

1203

Love's portion has its hour

If hours be the measure.

.

Our pain is in pocket,

Love is tomorrow

In the garment behind the shop glass.

.

As the snow upon a field

Withdraws with clemency,

So your knots and tufts unfold

In self-love's sun,

And a second's time may coincide.