for a time I hunted a tune and walked
the parched steppe far from the clusters of white
towers and I know there are fine folk there
I won’t mumble the educational
-industrial complex. Some of
its products do not fail to amuse and
inspire. But my stock of sharpened reeds, soot
knucklebones, and, please, let me start again.
There is fear of water, whirlpool,
and her of the cave on the way to the
singers who will soon break you down to the
up and rebuild you in the style of a
prevailing house as part of its wall and
another wall and waves always higher
Tag: water
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yet into the clouds again
hoping to believe again in
those pure unbiddens before the
inception of assorted retirement schemesbut who wants to read
that either and no thislevitation is sustained by light
in early spring almost dawn
walks through wildflower waves youcan almost believe and just
about forgive your younger soselfish self that denied those
sunrises and why not build
another boat ask that itbe kissed in a hidden
spot on the port sideby a dark woman filled
with spring water and soon
loosed on the surge forsome distant honey or ice
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how much water do I have to drink before the statue
(First published in Under the Basho.)
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still searching for the new sound for so long that the trees we planted in the wild days have made it to the other side of the desert and at night we hear heavy fruit drop sonorous into still water but this is not enough there is still a hair unreachable in the throat in the morning we find the ruins of another city it must have been spectacular with those stones in the sky
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in astronomical units
under my eyelid all the long summer
grit from the forgotten pyramid
my grasswe(e)t toes too long to trod over any meringue
a golden bubble chases the pigs
while Nobody plots
late unrhymable light my splitting shoe the same
Her trilling toes through
morning-star-wet grass
over calm water an orange concierge ogles a pint of rhyme
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I say the name but hidden in brown fields green peeks its head around the corner. She lets the light back slowly as ever. We are heavy with eggs. Nests being assembled. The wide water is clear and dark and deep inside something undeniable stirs.
trying to hold on to one thing in the mind with hands too small
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no matter how many pages, this, sitting in your chest and tomorrow, well, we can’t leave it here, not with his allergies, and like the art of conquered people, the distant clouds, what’s the word for a menacing sound in the distance, of course this is hardly a proper sendoff, still, the heart, and in his pockets the crumbs have pockets, though listening to these books won’t put groceries on the table, and the trees stopped blooming so suddenly, as if tipped off about the whole affair, sitting in the corner drinking water, as the poets of the anthology warned us about, and suddenly deer on the edge of downtown, this humid air and itch, and I lose interest in the delicate structure of the pastries, will you just open your mouth and say maybe
other animals 