Every direction, every verse explaining

Every direction, every verse explaining
pluralities of love. The lean muscle,
the unexplored library, the expression
of love in the thunderstorm. I'm hearing

a possibility, a rhetoric that's yearning
for a partner. The intervallic relations,
the modes in which I speak, the vain sighs
and ineffable madness. Every direction

and there's no center, pointless meditation
and love's insidious trials. O she is
something that I can't possess, I think

of new ways to express her. It seems
that the rain may never get here. She is
the mixture of fear and awe I'm feeling.

Undulating clouds hide a movement of love

Undulating clouds hide a movement of love
without conjunctions. The weather is moving
in a spectacle of sky, her legs are moving
through the tall grass. How she expresses love

is a mystery to me, the lights are moving
in strange patterns. I'm impressed by love
the way the mud is pressed by shoes, I love
her being and her spirit, the way she moves

in the light and the darkness. She proves
that god is real, she removes leather gloves
and touches my skin. The warmth of the stove

heats up the house and her small hands shove
me into the walls. The stars that improve
spirits wander the deep darkness above.

The new trees, the new mud and the new

The new trees, the new mud and the new
clouds moving in the sky that barely conceal
the Sun. These seeds that contain the ideals
of life, abstractions fed by the cold dew

and the doctrine of the rain. This view
from the water oak is illustrative, the real
extends indefinitely. I have been sealed
within this depression for years, I'm so

tired of words and language. Her nectar
and the color of the flower, the cold, dry
air in the winter months. Which blue star

reminds me of her eye? This wide territory
without a map, and the leaves look similar
to the tall trees reaching into the sky.

Love is the only thing moving. Stars wander

Love is the only thing moving. Stars wander
the heavens in strange patterns, love is all
that is seen and known. This wild ubiquity
of nonsense, this game of making sense of what

revolves about us. Love is the only thing
that's ever made, the movement of the oceans
and rivers reveals its secret. I imagine
a field without depth, a pasture without light

and a sky without clouds. These stars wander,
earth is the only thing moving. The illusions
of orbits, of language and sense, of ethics

and politics with meaning. She is the only
thing there is to apprehend in the whirling
movement that has developed around me.

Sitting in the morning so that the birds

Sitting in the morning so that the birds
don't know you're there. Whispers in the trees
and clouds that slowly obscure the Sun
telling ripe secrets. I can see her chest

fill with a spirit, her mouth articulate words
and legs inspire movement. Sitting in the
air waiting for weather, I'm the argument
for silence, the failure of a mysticism

from another hemisphere. I cannot think
nor speak without gross error. She's alive
with love as the Sun rises, I can hear

her body dying in the darkness. I'm sitting
under movements of moisture that remind me
of the first songs that I learned as a child.

I organized these words. I even had

I organized these words. I even had
these thoughts all by myself. I expressed
whatever it was I felt in a series of
geometries and measures. It was like

a painting or a sculpture. I once thought
that there was something different. I had
an idea that no one else had. I wrote
this sequence of alphabetic characters

and shared it through a medium. I even
followed the prevailing style. Yet, now
I deplore originality. There isn't

anything new under the Sun, there isn't
a story not being told. I disorganized
the meaning moving in these words.

I'm a silly elephant that's playing

I'm a silly elephant that's playing
in the rain. I'm stomping in puddles
and naming all the trees after cereal
brands. I'm a silly cloud just floating

in the middle of the day without going
anywhere. I'm not making any sense
and I don't care. I'm making new giggles
with fun and love. I'm a silly being

surrounded by silly stars within a silly
universe. It's said that art's a game
between all men of all eras. I'm an

artist when I'm not paying attention.
I'm a phrase that should be forgotten
in favor of a remarkably silly laugh.

I've noticed a lot of poets are using

For Sian S. Rathore

I've noticed a lot of poets are using
a similar style. They're following a beat
and repeating themselves. What's so great
about a lot of poets that are singing

the same song? I've noticed poets using
words others have used, noticed repeating
names and rhymes, some phrases in the feet
of a regular form. I've noticed a lot of

poets. I had an idea and then this style
annihilated it, writing what I've known
has caused me to forget it. This riddle

a lot of poets are using, but just how
am I to repeat it? I've noticed a lot of
poets are using a similar style now.

The temple in the desert was shaped like

The temple in the desert was shaped like
a man, the lines of the walls and doors
were in some rational order. The lioness
and goddess seduce me, these mythologies

in archaic verse, the grand movements of
classical prosody. The temple of light
and the shrine of darkness, the beautiful
shape of the setting Sun. She didn't think

nor speak, her thought was pointless, I saw
the birds flee to the horizon. The temple
was oriented so that the winter solstice

was caught by a large window. The poetess
has no impressed me, the curve of heaven
is the only constant that I have found.

Lover, this madness, this sacred illness

Lover, this madness, this sacred illness,
this code that's undecipherable, this design
that has no precedent, the ubiquitous light
that has no limit. Lover, this bewilderment

is worse than ignorance. These anaphora
and the obsession with creation have made
a litany of verses appear. The addiction
of the artist, the confusion of the gods

while fashioning life. Lover, this madness,
this wild noise, this unadulterated pasture,
this consequence of images without meaning

assaults the listener. Lover, the evening
comes as the Sun sets and I can't figure
out how to forget what I have imagined.

What errant labyrinth, what blinding flash

What errant labyrinth, what blinding flash
of light reflected from a diamond, what
awful verse personified! I have designed
these poems for different purposes, schemes

and tropes with objects. What confused diadem,
what ornamental sonnet, what turning color
today is dressing the sky? I have composed
these songs for similar reasons, patterns

and cycles without meaning. She expresses
herself in the ways the trees grow, in the
colors of the iris, in the weeds that lean

on the side of the road. The old language
is confusing. I have discovered a grammar
of love that seems to explain everything.

The stars have had their meetings silently

The stars have had their meetings silently
in the shade of river oaks. I hear music
coming from the hidden nests, the blue birds
lay eggs and the vowels move within verse

like acorns in the soil. I've watered the tree
with a song, the stars have had their meetings
in another language. There are no minutes
nor hours in their truth. I hear the music

coming from the disclosed homes of angels
and deities. The sirens sing and the muses
expose themselves ludicrously. The stars have

the character of remembrance. I hear music
coming from her heart, the words and names
of a practice that can improve attitudes.

These fantasies dancing across the night

These fantasies dancing across the night
seem to be lights that I cannot identify
in the obscure distance. I can hear a voice
begin to sing, begin to pronounce reasons

for our awful separation. The dark jeans
and playing between the pillows where we named
the states and stations. She had cut her hair
and the train was passing, I picked an orange

and it tasted bitter. Fantasies sleeping
during the day and moving along at night
because they're hiding from something. I can

still feel her hands on my arms and shoulders,
her eyes on mine. These dreams wander about
the stars and have their meetings silently.

Other men too are only dreams of time

Other men too are only dreams of time,
fantastic leaves scattered by the wind
in the expansive pasture. Other men too
are asleep without a calendar, the Sundial

articulates the hour. I have imagined
a ridiculous universe, the moving stars
create alphabets that fail to capture
whatever she is. Other men too are only

manifestations of the infinite. I have
no claim to her, no proof of her existence
to cite in this library. The monastery

hides in the trees, time is now asleep
in the carvings of stone. I cannot escape
these fantasies dancing across the night.

The curving path that the beloved takes

The curving path that the beloved takes
across the heavens, in the subtle and complex
patterns she traces. This knowing is a reflex
of a prior time, I see the leaves that shake

with moisture. When I'm asleep, she is awake
in the early morning hours. Her awful sex
deludes me continually, I measure aspects
and direct motions. The cycles that break

their patterns become signifiers. I become
an ignorant man the more that I seek wisdom
and light. The curving path that I've seen

is unreal. This heaven expresses a guise
of forms and shapes, of colors on the dome
of heaven that merely hint at a paradise.

Books and politics, the movement of the dry

Books and politics, the movement of the dry
air in the winter months. Her voice is firm
in the still of night and the coming storm
has scattered timid leaves. I wish to bury

myself in sleep, to vanish from the flurry
of life without a trace. I hold the warmth
of her body near me, appreciate its forms
and represent it. The ideals that we carry

in language have a moisture. Sun together
with Moon brings water across the canopy
of trees. I remove the mud from the leather

shoes, observe the layered clothes of gypsies
and think of an old song. The clouds gather
in the sky and seem neither sad nor happy.

The shuttering branches move above the wet

The shuttering branches move above the wet
piles of leaves, the birds fly above the fields
and into the distance. She is what is held
by the lungs, the different melodies in duet

dancing above the tonic. The white egret
spreads its wings above the blue and cold
bayou water. Her face reminds me of a child,
its innocence, the undistinguished sonnet

hasn't explained anything. I am alone
in this illusory whirl of images, the sad
books sit on the shelves and a dull drone

fills up the space. The tree begins to spread
its limbs in the white sky. The sitting stone
is worn away by the traffic of the road.

She is obscured by ephemerides and veils

She is obscured by ephemerides and veils,
misrepresented by words, occulted by clothing
and obfuscated by rhetoric. I'm confused
by the layers, the different narratives within

the text and texture. She is obscured by my
knowledge and love. The calendars we keep
divide her unnaturally, the weeks and months
have this strange dynamism. I remember

the words of the bird's language, the intervals
between the pitches, the first lonely song
of a mystic near the mountain. She's obscured

by my desire and will. The calendars I study
make her more mysterious and then somehow
further the separation that's between us.

In a nearly incomprehensible situation

In a nearly incomprehensible situation
of books and pianos, I think I have seen
a representation of her. The Arabic script
on her body, the repeated words in verses

populating the shelves. I am myself
in another situation, the horoscopes
and prophesied futures have expressed
a convoluted beloved. In a nearly

incommensurate pattern of names and words,
I think I have comprehended her. I am
another or an impression in the early

morning hours. In a nearly incomprehensible
sequence of phonemes, the truth I am
is obscured by ephemerides and veils.

Her undulating valley receives weather

Her undulating valley receives weather
from another hemisphere, prevailing winds
and altered tides, the consciousness of spheres
revolving. Her undulating valley receives

the light of the Moon, the Moon receives Sunlight
and reflects it back. The streams that carve out
the land, make mountains and lakes, the power
of the flowing water. I don't know the names

of the stations on the path, nor the way
to the beloved. Her unintelligible language
deceives me again, from another atmosphere

she seems an angel. I examine the aspects
of moving stars, the curvature of heaven
is a nearly incomprehensible situation.

The kingdoms of her undulating valley

The kingdoms of her undulating valley
are dancing orange fire. The violin music
and lilting flute melody, the Sun sets
and the thunder makes a sound. I sleep

in the caves of her body, in the shade
of her trees, in the musty scented forest
that guards her sex. The kingdoms of her body
are ungovernable. The broad celestial music

of planets in the sky, the old language
of lights that move. I can remember when
the horizon was represented by watercolor

and I couldn't tell the difference. I am
that I am not the truth. The kingdoms of
her undulating valley receive weather.

This is just to say I've gone to bed

This is just to say I've gone to bed
while he is upon some task. The television
is mumbling something and a light flickers
over the window. This is just to say

I can't forget her. The curvature of eyes
and the swollen clouds, the subtle movement
of golden strands in a breeze. This is just
to say I've had a brief dream about her

in the morning hours, mourned her hourly
as a Sundial during a storm. It is so cold
without you here. He's working poetry

into the open spaces, off the walls
are his fair syllables. This is just to
say that justice is never quite balanced.

This bewildering nonsense of feeling

This bewildering nonsense of feeling
beyond syllabic verse, this intoxicated
artistry that's useless, this obstinance
and ignorance in the face of glory. This

love isn't moving and doesn't have a name
that I can recall. Whatever constitutes
the real seems so confused, I can't say
what I want or need. In the beginning, I

was this totality. What is it that renders
us so decadently? This bewildering love
is the invitation to death. This nonsense

announces a life of delusion, I cannot
explain the separation. This intoxicated
madness hasn't brought me closer to her.

The turning sky announced a storm was coming

The turning sky announced a storm was coming
over the pastures soon and the brown gulf
received its moisture. I remember the verse
of the early moderns, the turning elements

of a song that we've forgotten. The turning
spheres and globes reminded me of her eyes
and body, the mysteries veiled by clothing
and names. I don't know what love is. I see

the clouds get heavy, their color changing to
a darker grey and purple. I have swelled
like oceans under the Moon, my feeling is

a wave that knows no bound. The turning sky
has kept time over the centuries and now I
return to its calendar as the rain begins.

The confusing conference of the birds

The confusing conference of the birds
in the oak reminds me of the dialect
of mystics. In the library, I selected
yellow books, the first, second and third

gospels, the silly scriptures of a weird
prophet. The confusing water reflects
the spectacle of sky, the water collects
the lights of heaven that have been shared

by whatever gods. Do birds know poetry?
Do trees write psalms? Do the frogs argue
with each other about doctrine? Geometry

of stars and architecture of rooms continue
to puzzle my understanding, the symmetry
of inverse intervals doesn't seem true.

The singing birds are wiggling their tongues

The singing birds are wiggling their tongues
in the foggy dawn. I can feel on my skin
the humidity, the indifference and love
of heaven and earth. I remember her mouth,
the purple lipstick and the sensual sound
of breath escaping. The new day's white light

has split the trees, at first a purple light
spreads over the horizon. Leaves are tongues
for the star's nectar, I can hear the sound
of the maples rustling, I feel on my skin
the changing of the weather. The wide mouth
of the bay accepts the storm, its awful love,

its awesome hate and obstinance. I'm in love
with the language of the birds and the light
that reveals the bayous and valleys. My mouth
is filled with words and names, my moving tongue
recites an unknown scripture. Her white skin
is like the light of gods, her movement sounds

like the grace of angels. I hear the soft sound
of bare feet in the mud, the way that love
has driven us mad. The clothing covers skin
and fruit, the fruit is nurtured by the light
of stars and moons, the living give their tongue
to the heavens faithfully. I move my mouth

to recite the paradox and riddle, the mouths
of men in the past built this narrative. Sound
floods the open spaces like water, tongues
of fire illumine the distance. I'm in love
with the repetition of cycles, with the light
that discloses mysteries, with her skin

and the way she makes love. I feel the skin
of the pear and apple, I take within my mouth
the precious fruit. All about me is a light
that I can't explain, I can hear a sound
that I can't decipher, I can feel this love
that doesn't make sense. The confused tongues

of birds grace my skin, the melodic sound
of songs from open mouths. I am in love
with the light articulated by her tongue.

And nothing happened: day was all but done

And nothing happened: day was all but done,
the stars were hanging on the darkened blanket
of sky, the moons resounded in the spheres
and prophets slept in stations. Nothing happened

when I whispered the magic word, when I believed
in gods and love, when I believed I had her
and could realize ideals. And nothing happened:
the trees were silent, the squirrels didn't jump

from branch to branch, there were no birds singing
nor clouds holding water. Day was all but done
when a purple light split the veil: her arms

and hair, her will and desire, her autonomy
annihilating scripture. And nothing happened:
a lake in which they see their own reflection.

The wet cows, the purple horizon line

The wet cows, the purple horizon line,
the orange glow of the city, the surface
of the road reflecting light. The Moon hangs
somewhere obscured by clouds moving slowly

over the tops of the trees. The moss moves
and the water flows, I remember the names
of the birds, the dialogue of the mystics in
a dream, the lightning leaping between clouds

in the summer sky. I traced the contour
of her hip and breast, the stars of Scorpio
and a wandering Mars. I can't remember days

or weeks or months, I cannot distinguish
between love and indifference. The wet cows
don't say a word as the storm rolls in.

The ceiling fan has a familiar wobble

The ceiling fan has a familiar wobble,
the hem of her dress moves. The little dancers
and helicopters fall from trees, I'm dreaming
of a sleep, I'm sleeping in a maddened dream

that dances like a solar system. The music
is squeaks and hums, the fingers cut the air,
the legs move water, the lungs vibrate moisture
and the clouds have cried. The room is empty

when the door starts to open, all the spheres
and numerologies, these weird philosophies
and shit I can't remember. Is it written

that I'm the suffering bird? The sojourn of
the mystic in the desert under the cycles
of stars and planets moving harmoniously.

The rain from earlier in the week had knocked

The rain from earlier in the week had knocked
the red and orange leaves from the branches
of maples and water oaks. I hear the music
of water on the pavement, the soft-wet mud

and the delicate chime sound. I can remember
the way she listened to the stories that I told
and how her breath was warm. I wasn't crying
nor laughing, I don't know what was happening

when I heard the harmonica music and she wore
my cowboy hat in the woods. The yellow color
of the leaves, the movement of the squirrels in

the morning mist. I can remember the feeling
of a January with her, I can hear the music
of the heavens whisper in the leafless trees.

To see in the day or in the year a symbol

To see in the day or in the year a symbol
for god or faith, to see in the hours a name
for the unnamed nothing, the pronouns without
their antecedents; to see in the night

or in the month a sign for rolling thunder
or a pouring rain, to see the books unfold
their pages as if they were the falling leaves
of a tree in a violent storm. O the time

is brief, the sleep is short, the days end
as they begin! To believe in the moment
of a word pronounced in love near the window

of an unknown hotel; to see in the day
the beloved clearly without the strictures
of language, and to celebrate her rightly.

To look at the river made of time and water

To look at the river made of time and water
flowing toward the gulf, to look at the birds
in different formations, the iris that grow
on the sides of the canals in little groupings;

to look at the time made of water, the river
turning the mud, the verse revealing the nude
body of the beloved, to look at the poetry
disclosed by the tongues of camels and suns;

to see the water in the river. O how time
carries me like a leaf to its end! To see
beyond the horizon as the Sun is setting

or hear the laughing clouds change colors. O!
to look at the river made of time and water
and see that I myself am nothing more.

The dying afternoon is cold with bands

The dying afternoon is cold with bands
of clouds that stretch above the open pasture
and into the distance. This fall is different
from all the others, I remember her body

in the floral sweaters, the sweat and heat
between the letters of the story. The living
spiders and trees, bugs and hidden roots
peek from the mud. Her little toes had turned

the color of a walrus, the encyclopedia
is full of stories about her escapades
in another hemisphere; the art, thangka,

golden hair of the Nile. The eternal day
is without explanation, a verse of body
and blood has left the sky misinterpreted.

There, dreaming up a brilliant labyrinth

There, dreaming up a brilliant labyrinth,
was the poet, eyes closed and lips moving
in indistinct patterns. There the architect
slept a system into being, there a brilliant

Sun was received and fashioned into sequences
of vowels and consonants. There the measure
and symmetry make music, the night and day
express sympathy. The stars whirl about

the sky as if they're dancing, I see one
flicker behind the tree. The Spanish moss
and the wailing of the cricket, the prayer

of frogs and bayous lull me. There, awake,
was the poet, eyes open and lips moving
in distinct patterns beginning to unfold.

Evenings, the moon, the leap of a bonfire

Evenings, the moon, the leap of a bonfire,
the smell of the pine tree, the loud train
and the rumbling tracks. I remember hair
and open mouths, the whispering intoxicated

wind, the wet river moving. She's poetry
without time, artistry without precedent,
state without government, without image.
Mornings, the sun, the stance of a tree,

the sound of the blue bird, the quiet light
and the sleeping word. I remember love
and the wild thirst, the soft white skin

with a salty taste. Sleeping, the stars,
the touch of love has awakened within
the instrument a song worthy of her.

The soft dance of light that I always see

The soft dance of light that I always see
on the changing clouds, the unexplained error
of gods. I catch myself in the round mirror
and wonder where she is. The tall oak tree

is making a sound, its branches are free
in the firm breeze. The weather is the juror,
the night is the realm that is not conquered
by the Sun, the Moon moves through degrees

and the harvest comes. She is without image.
The water and the light is what earth wears
and the land represents her. The damage

of the storms and the waves, then the clear
sky of another spring. I'm turning pages
like leaves and waiting for her to appear.

Images of infinity and solitude

Images of infinity and solitude,
reverberations, simple country songs
and yodels on the radio. In the static
of the television I think I see her

curving breast, her hips that move across
the screen like planets traversing sky,
her eyes like golden beads. Images of
angels, spirits, enthroned goddesses

with floral crowns. I have imagined this
and that, the possible things, she is
whatever we've conceived. She speaks

alone in the space and it turns into
a brilliant chorus. The images of her
are changing slightly in the night sky.

In the supreme already worn-out effort

In the supreme already worn-out effort
of infinite artists, inspired prophets,
imaginal philologists. The language
is always the same but isn't, the absolute

or the abstract. I saw her legs moving
in the water, her feet depressing sand,
I heard the song she sang using the air
as her medium. Why might we sing again

the experience of love? O the trails
that we all know! The demonstrated loss
in a lilting music, the posture showing

her sadness. Yet, another effort I
have composed. Singing about her being
is something that we are always doing.

Not even the frogs were awake at dawn

Not even the frogs were awake at dawn
the morning when the birds began to leave
and the trees were quiet. The bugs deserve
the frogs, the dawn deserves day, on and on

the songs are coming through me as if drawn
through an instrument. Not even wild love
and a calendar that has more than twelve
months, a chess game with too many pawns

and powerful knights. I love you today
and tomorrow, the birds don't know the date
but they still sing. Not even in the prayer

may we remain, in thoughts that decorate
a senseless poetry. Yet, I will stay
at the task until we're no longer separate.

Lover, I dance in through the open door

Lover, I dance in through the open door
into your dream. The mirror reflects shadows
of pink and orange, the horizon glows
with love. I am counting the measure on your

arms and legs, watching the light pour
over your living skin from the open window.
Lover, today we dance and again tomorrow
we'll forget how to awake. The tilted floor

of the museum is confusing, movement keeps
creating something. The whispering shaman
in a valley that is covered by a sweep

of clouds, written in the smoke is an omen
and a puzzle. I wonder if I am asleep
to see so beautifully delicate a woman.

Burning geometry, the crystal dome

Burning geometry, the crystal dome,
inversions of degrees, reflected patterns
in the vaulted architecture. She is
the gnomon telling time, the leaping fire

that shuns the darkness. The subtle angle
of her shoulder, its aspect to the ecliptic,
the moons in motion. She is the changing
hours that have their own distinct colors,

the pinks of dusk and oranges of dawn,
the purple sounding aubade, violet Sun
setting into the river. She's no number,

she is unreal. Furious cartography,
the celestial spheres, perverse scripture
and the refracted illusions of light.

There are so many more things in the world

There are so many more things in the world
than sequences of letters, than images
in poems, than labyrinthine lines, than eyes
of a clear blue color. There are so many

rivers holding water, oceans that rise
with the movement of the Moon, growing trees
and opening flowers. There are so many
beautiful breaths, words and names for her

in the fading light, colors of clothing
that veil her forms. I sing a brief dream
and a long sonnet, she takes off the layer

of clouds that cover her heaven. There are
no ways to express how I feel, she is
the feeling that doesn't have a meaning.

I have done no harm. But I remember now

I have done no harm. But I remember now
the cold glass of the bottle, the pink light
in the empty bedroom. I have heard the sound
of her soft breath, of her gasps and sighs before

the tide arrives. The morning star announces
itself before the dawn, the brisk winter air
is clear and without moisture. I have had
her body in my hands, her moving language

on my tongue, her sweet smell within my nose
and her image on my eye. But I remember
now I am in this earthly world, she doesn't

exist beyond the imagination. I have done
the work of a craftsman quickly, I have made
the light into a comprehensible woman.

The shining queen has fallen asleep, her head

The shining queen has fallen asleep, her head
under the curve of heaven. Dark-brown frogs
and buzzing insects speak beneath the purple
dome. The pyramids, currencies and histories

of another land, the sovereignty of her eyes
and they way they lead to death. I articulate
desire, design architectures that express
the love of flowers, the wisdom of the trees

and compassion of the pasture. The young queen
has fallen asleep, her dream is of a soft
and changing hue. Her breath is slowing down

like a planet in its orbit, I see the color
of her breast. The curving path of the Sun
writes across the wide-open vault of sky.

The figures in a pattern that describe

The figures in a pattern that describe
the months and years, the yellow morning star
and the martial warrior in Leo. The planets
name the days while the moving luminaries

draw lines like scripts. The loops of the trees
and birds, the language of the green leaves
as they change color and fall. I see her eyes,
her hair and skin, the color of her tongue

and the way it moves. The argument of light
in the early morning moves on the surface
of the wet bayou. I have kissed her lips

a thousand times, recited several poems
and made agreements. The cycles of light
reveal her form in many different ways.

The secrets of her ridiculous language

The secrets of her ridiculous language,
the halls of her libraries, the white light
of the Sun reflected in the Moon. I live
without a language, I become the dreams

I have. The object of my thought resembles
the spectacle of heaven, I assemble
the figures in a pattern that describes
the movement of the planets. Her language

is beyond sense, the sacred and ridiculous
secret remains unknown. I study the painters,
the poets and the singers, tones and modes

from plural shrines. The secrets of her body,
the doors of her government, the white light
revealing the text of which she is composed.

I do not dream. The closing eye of the Sun

I do not dream. The closing eye of the Sun
makes splendid colors, the curving purple hue,
the gradient of orange. O the silhouettes
of trees on the horizon! I do not dream,

I do not read nor see, I do not know
the mystery of the light. The opening eye
of a lover in the dark, the whispered word
and arbitrary love, the curving violet hue

of her soft dress. I do not dream. She says
a few words in the silence of the evening
that bounce back off the walls. The silhouettes

of figures in the window, I do not dream,
I do not love nor live. I do not know
the secrets of her ridiculous language.

I do not know what face is looking back

I do not know what face is looking back
from a yellow Moon, what eyes are gazing down
from the splayed heaven, what array of stars
is keeping time. I do not know the science

beyond observation, the subtleties of faith,
the vainglory of virtuous ancient orators.
I do not know what hands are holding mine,
what legs are responsible for the movement

of her body. The feet of the trees, or leaves
that fall in a winter breeze, I do not know
the meaning. Yet, she has articulated

the heavens radically, she has devised
a system for the luminaries. I do not know
what love is but I know what I am feeling.

I dream her full arms and the thin black dress

I dream her full arms and the thin black dress
falls on a delicate shoulder. I dream her eyes
are blue stars, timeless and silent ornaments
on the curve of heaven. I forget the map

with which to orient myself, the Sundial
and the mystic's calendar, the turning days,
the change of hours in the orange light.
The words of her clothing, the nouns and verbs,

articles falling over her breasts. I'm breathing
the air we share, the humid air that's moving
in the room. The maroon curtains obscure

the light, beloved is hidden behind symbols
and foreign mythologies. I dream her simple
form on the changing surfaces of time.

I dream the sea, that sea, surrounding me

I dream the sea, that sea, surrounding me
like invisible air. The sound of the leaves
moving in the tops of trees, I am asleep
inside her turning weather. I dream of her,

of thighs and curves, parted lips, of time
beyond the mind's conception. O the water
in the canals and bayous, in the gulfs
and bays, on her skin and body! I'm asleep

with tired cows in the heavy purple night,
with the yellow Moon reflected on the surface
of the quiet water. I can hear the words

she pronounces, the warm scent of her hair
and the curvature of neck. I dream the sea
and the stars as a moving love that governs.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow
through your instruments, the wooden flutes
resound, the cornets flourish, the royalty
arrays itself in heaven. She's a spectacle

of wind and water, the play of four elements
in a material sphere. The angels arising
in the infinite space like tongues of flame
aspiring toward the nothing. I have made

a sequence of phonemes, an art that confuses
the whirling globe. The riddles of the poems
the Persians left, the alphabets without

symbols for vowels. She is the gesture
of the broad world, movement of the valleys
and mountains that man just cannot explain.

Alright, I suppose it's done after this

Alright, I suppose it's done after this.
The last speech, the last morning phone call
and whisper above the static, the last eye
in a foggy mirror, the last golden Sunrise

in Bayou Gauche. I have inspected two-faced
Janus' monument and the cyclic nature
of the perennial calendar. The sidereal
zodiac regresses slowly, the retrograde

of planets, apparent motions, occultations
of benefic luminaries. I muttered monologues
under the maples, translated soliloquies

in the dim moonlight. Alright, I suppose
it has only just begun. The first word
from a beautiful woman creates the day.

She wandered undifferentiated media

She wandered undifferentiated media,
qualitative verse, the subjective scansion
of biased journalism. The social network,
the television sounds, the ruins of meaning

strewn about the arena. I remember epics,
the tragic romance, the opening heavens
like an eye that sees all. She's separated
into segments, sections, divisions, rooms

like a house or a museum, measures like a song,
or bars like a rap. She wondered if meaning
was message or vice versa, if Derrida

was wrong or right. I can't tell any more
if I am in love, if this makes any sense,
or if these scattered verses serve a purpose.

The imagined future, the picture she took

The imagined future, the picture she took
in the hotel mirror, the curvature of stomach
and anxious morning. I traced the golden hair
of Laura, remembered the breeze in river oaks

and wondered about virtue. The flowered branch,
the petals on a bough, the fictive stories
of magic realism. I thought I contained her
with an infinite intellect, apprehended her

with a poem or a weird sutra. I have not
an image that does justice, this realized past,
this conceived present; I have imagined

the parting lips, the moving tongue and teeth,
the language of thighs. But yet, this conceit
seems doomed to failure in a limited song.

She is beyond truth. The unspoiled white

She is beyond truth. The unspoiled white
of a foreign daughter, the unspoken word
of a sleepy tree. The language of the sky
or the script of the planets cannot measure

the patterns she expresses. I saw shadows
reveal the time, I saw the sleepy cows
and the awake clouds. The same images that
populate the poems of now were populating

the verses of John Donne. Shine here to us
and you are everywhere! The golden Sun
that walks the curve of heaven, white light

exposing virgin leaves. She is beyond name
and attribute, the tallest mountain can't
obscure the beauty that she does possess.

I counted a few breaths. The tree stretched out

I counted a few breaths. The tree stretched out
its branches in the sky, the pointless Sun
described the colors of the clouds. She asked
the color of my thought, disclosed emotions

with her lips and tongue. The moving words
gathered themselves as weather, the birdsong
tested intervals in the shade of river oak.
She asked a question and the moving library

obscured its meaning. I examined her posture
and the measure of her breast, the rising tide
of the water in her oceans, the round vowels

and austere consonants. I forget the number
of stars that hung in the sky, the milky light
that exposed her mystery in the smudged mirror.

I wish I had a girl in a single word

I wish I had a girl in a single word,
in a point of light, in a cryptic poem,
or poetic conversation. I wish I had
a measure to define her with, a name

to remember her by. The woman is
without adequate description, syllables
and scriptures can't illumine her. I wish
for maps and tables, almanacs, ephemerides,

exotic instruments, difficult philosophies
and dead theogony. I wish for a shrine
with which to hold my prayer, a single word

or phrase to carry the truth. Yet, I wish
most honestly for an object I cannot
possess nor reach because it's infinite.

It seemed the heavy bird mumbled a word

It seemed the heavy bird mumbled a word
when it flew by in less than an instant
after I hadn't moved a while. The ancient
feathers, the fossils of a singing bird,

its hollow bones disclose a musical chord
in the dull light. The syllabic sentences
of a manly animal, the awful, prescient
thought of the moving bayou. She whispered

her name under the leaves and this section
of the pasture is all ours. In the dense
underbrush grow blackberries, the fictions

design her beyond comprehension. The suspense
of a rising yellow Moon, I had a vision
of her dazzling beauty in the nonsense.

How every fool can play upon the word

How every fool can play upon the word!
How every fool can devise a scripture
with which to troll the world! I don't believe
there's anything here but rude rhetoric

and fallacious arguments. The sophistry
of the postmodern, the noisy decadence
of rhythmless fiction. How can every fool
spill out his breath undisciplined? I cannot

make excuse for this tripe, the awful tropes
and repetitious sloganeering. How every fool
can trick the world, become the charlatan

of a gross ideal! Yet, the illiterate,
the unlearned, the inarticulate possess
a wisdom that is beyond all poetry.

The quiet opening of the white flower

The quiet opening of the white flower
in the warm dawn. Pink color fills her cheeks
and the golden hair is like a falling curtain
of light in the tall trees. A branch of green

and a falling leaf, the yellow pollen sits
in the humid air. She is the violet light
reflected by the canal in different shapes
and patterns. The trees are silhouettes of black

and gold, I hear the words she says with air
that's given by the stars. The curving heaven
and the vault of luminaries, I open

my mouth to say her name, the light kisses
my tongue as it comes from the Moon. She is
the quiet opening of the white flower.

The world is still deceived with ornamental

The world is still deceived with ornamental
verse, augmented architecture, noisy narrative
and confused scripture. The letters spell out
disoriented names, the paths of the planets

and precession of equinoxes. She's a sentence
I mutter under my breath, the book's language
and the non-language of birds. The river flows
into the gulf, the bays lap at the shores

of many communities. The world is still deceived
by curious rhetoric, furious device, hatred
and ideological love. I cannot decipher

the meaning beneath the subterfuge collecting
in a mess of illusions. She is the bare tree
itself before it is dressed with anything.

I should report that which I say I saw

I should report that which I say I saw,
that which I saw said, that which is devised
and represented in the houses. I gaze
at the receding light, at the horizon

that divides earth and heaven. I say I saw
the purple clouds pronounce themselves, the paint
of angels and of devils, the awful warfare
of thunderous weather. I should report I heard

the whistling of the trees, the awesome noise
of a marvelous storm, the confusion of language
before the power went out. In the warm night

she seemed to shorten my measure, the southern
sky was very clear. I read aloud the books
to her and said what I have never seen.

I do not think there is any such woman

I do not think there is any such woman
that meets this description. Though many faces
present themselves, represent themselves
again and again. I have imagined a woman

god, a different scripture, I do not think
there is any such art. The many facets
of the light reveal themselves as the glass
separates them on the floor. In the church

of night the Moon wanders, the stars pray
and the planets complete recitations. I do
imagine an unknown perfection, a labyrinth

of mystery to love. I whisper the duty
of trees and pastures, I do not think at all,
but feel that there must be such a woman.

Love itself describes its own perfection

Love itself describes its own perfection,
there is no need for words. The whirling art
of wandering stars beyond the blanket of cloud
and the turning bayou listens. Love itself

is mover of existence, the two birds
that sing in the early morning have a song
that describes the light. In the thrones of trees
and seats of flowers are the right proportions

of penitent architecture. Yet, the poems
continue to unfold, the text resolves
itself to further development. The wondering

man devises schemes and tropes, philosophies
and diagrams. But, love is without science,
love itself describes its own perfection.

Lover, the straight-forward unveiled language

Lover, the straight-forward unveiled language
of her eyes is everything. The untamed fury
of the broad sea, the turning of the eye
of the storm, turquoise, navy. Without age

she assaults the coast, her various images
spawn heresies. The thunderous inquiry
of the heavens, the clarity lightning buys
for a brief moment. Lover, in the marriage

of sky and earth is weather, turn a cheek
to the squalls and monsoons. The loud worship
of the first breath is in the wind inspecting

the valleys; the breath of god is no concept
nor abstraction. Lover, my knees are weak
at the trembling of your virgin bottom lip.

I think I just woke up. At least I think

I think I just woke up. At least I think
I did, over to the right is a red barn
but I may have dreamt it. The language I learn
from the fog in the morning, the yellow and pink

color of the light. I pulled out another blank
page and moved the chalk. The flowers earn
the Sun, the wide and fertile earth turns
in an empty space, the stones that have sunk

to the bottom just sit there. Another moment
and the birds will come alive with quiet love
between the branches. I fuss to orient

myself with the hours, the extending grove
seems without depth. O she is the silent
love, the only spirit that may move!

Lover, the Sun has roused itself to give

Lover, the Sun has roused itself to give
the world its light. The rattling of the snake
and whispering of the cricket, the soft quake
of a calf sleeping. The clouds seem alive

above the pasture, the clouds that deceive
my eyes with changing forms. The shadows take
the surface of the bayou, the leaves shake
in the maple and the oak. The wooden archive

renders a fantastic history: power, glory,
virtue in this forever-manipulated game.
Lover, the heavens present an illusory

image, a representation, we have become
a myth beyond knowledge. The brilliant memory
of love's disastrous trials before fame.

The falling leaves allow the tree to measure

The falling leaves allow the tree to measure
the declination of the Sun. She glances
in the mirror, she whispers a remembrance
above the mud. The stars narrate the treasures

of every era, the games played, the sure
art of a wandering page without balance.
I can't remember, I thought I saw a semblance
of her on the water, the flowers, the pleasure

under a purple autumn. The calendars change
but the days look the same, I am ashamed
of the songs I sing. The colors arrange

themselves in telling patterns, they exclaim
a myth beyond the nations. In the range
of your song all the images look the same.

The wood panel walls and the rusted stove

The wood panel walls and the rusted stove
in an old mobile home. I look at the pictures
on the brown walls, the yellowed ears of paper
on the coffee table. Two cans of green beans

and a cup of corn, the golden planets moved
in circles up above. It's like there's a ballet
of luminaries, the gods perform a dance
that discloses a mystery. O the furious air

and curious earth! The water that destroys
the past and fills the ponds. I think of spirit
as something that is flowing, of the flux

of ideas and authorities. The small house
is overtook by wildlife, the tall bushes
grow through the windows into the living room.

It seems the birds themselves pronounce a rhyme

It seems the birds themselves pronounce a rhyme
from in the trees, the several church bells rang
at dawn announcing day. I remember prayers sang
and mumbled in the breezeway, the smart plume

of feathers in her hair. The flickering flame
near the altar before mass, the auspicious bang
of a book dropped to the floor. The candles hang
from the ceiling in neat rows and they illumine

the pious and the poor. The ocean's heart
is pulsing beneath the surface, its wide nose
smells at the shores of islands. The birds start

to sing around, arrange a verse that throws
itself across the valley. I know some parts
but certainly not all of the beautiful rose.

The plea of youth! The movement of the flame

The plea of youth! The movement of the flame
in the evening breeze, the clavicle and shoulder,
the lung and breast. I can hear the few years
the argument is built upon, the architecture

of the space, the narratives that are woven
by text. She is the object of the chapters
from that old novel, the scaffolds of characters
and themes interwoven. I am getting older

and the fire doesn't touch me. She is leaving
the room like ashes leave the fire, like
boats leave harbor, like words leave the mouths

of poets. As the hours turn into months
and months into long years, the aging justice
she represents becomes a consumed fuel.

The yellow bark, the changing tilt of the Sun

The yellow bark, the changing tilt of the Sun
as winter approaches. I seem to remember
the color of the scarves and coats, the time
that's kept by clocks and watches. Underneath

the heavens wander beings dazzled by light
and dark, encumbered with symbols, mystified
by myth and brand. The syllables we utter
have hypnotized us so, the modern stanza,

the trope and device of a dark wood. The Sun
bleeds purple hues, the iris and the lily
without design. I am the long calendar

of an ancient people, the pattern of moons
and starry sky. She changes in the mellow
dawn into a tree that I have not seen.

Without a measure I cannot make sense

Without a measure I cannot make sense
of this broad library, of the stanzas
in the explicit verse. The tangled lovers
and confused conflicts, I can hear the cadence

of the drums and flutes. Her curving form
designs the day time, how the flowers move
and bees shake pollen, how the blue jays go
from tree to tree without sound. Without measure

the music has no meaning, the relationships
between the pitches are like dances of
the different luminaries coupled. Her splendid

red lips and porcelain neck, the swan that sits
on the surface of the pond. I love the degree
of her situation as it slowly changes.

Unremembered speeches, obligations

Unremembered speeches, obligations
and consolations of philosophers,
the prayers unmeasured and unrhymed, I
don't know what the argument is. I don't

recall the conceit, in soliloquies
and monologues, in laborious verse
I hear her speak. The litanies of angels,
the propositions and devices, designs

of solemn stoics, confused Pythagoreans
and dazzled geometers. She is the duty
of tragic words, comedic names, of order

and degree in artistry. The vowels
of the poetry are placed in sequence
by the virtuous artist with the source.

All about me is a confused language

All about me is a confused language
of lights and spirits. The feathers of birds
and laments of the savages, mythologies
of mothers and of turtles. All about me

and repetitious stories, dualist narratives
and paraleiptic devices. How does she
affect the world before I know? How do
her eyes have gravity? How do the stars

foretell her doings, reveal propositions
that limit things. The objects of argument
and arguments of objects are delusions

of a poetic god. Remember the measure
of days in the classic literature, about me
revolve the lights of heaven in a fog.

Lover, she's finally gone. I cannot see

Lover, she's finally gone. I cannot see
my self in this dull mirror, I cannot see
the limits of my being in the texts
of a disoriented library. Lover, I leave

the air a clouded puzzle, a new riddle
and a difficult poem. The bayou water
changes color, purple, blue, gray, pink,
or green in the morning. The thick pigment

and thicker thought, I see the little star
that punctuates the dawn. Golden Jupiter
and the lazy bull, the sensual ecliptic

whirls in a milky light. Lover, I see
your body in the pointless reflection
of shadowy forms on the water's surface.

I have several poems you've never seen

I have several poems you've never seen,
several prayers recited that I have not
resounded in the air. I have several
maps for narratives, collected verses,

scattered rhymes and epics. O the characters
that populate the novels, philosophical
treatises and tracts! The woven lines
resemble veils, reveal the mysteries

of other lovers. I have several ideals
that I have realized, several artists
hang in the dull night sky. She is above

the earth like heaven is, above us now
because we are so low. I am the dirt
that turns to dust as breezes move in.

Speaking tongues, opera, the dancing girls

Speaking tongues, opera, the dancing girls
in a ballet near the window seem to leave
their form blazed on my eye. I am in love
with the moving lines, the way that she unfurls

her legs in the thin tights. The water swirls
in the transparent cup, a canoe has been carved
from the cypress tree. O beloved I crave
your body, your wet eyes, the simple curls

of eyelashes. I am wandering in the blonde
of early morning and the air I inhale
is cold. The yellows and greens are blending

in the distance, there is no true scale
for my love. I can't imagine what's beyond
the heavens or beyond her skin so pale.

I wonder was it then or was it now

I wonder was it then or was it now
that I was in love? Inside the small kitchen
I could smell her body, I could smell her when
she slept and dreamt. The Western wind blows

in the tops of trees, I cannot figure how
her mystery sustains me. Wobbling hens
and other birds are talking in the silken
dew of morning. I can hear the brown cows

singing near the bayou, singing again
about the changing weather. She's a fever
I can't absolve my self of, she's a bargain

that none should pass. I wonder if she ever
sang like the low clouds? The soft terrain
answers the heaven from above the river.

Within her veins the coursing of a blue

Within her veins the coursing of a blue
blood is making music. Who has allowed
our being here? The books are weathered yellows
and browns, the ocean is an infinite league

of sorrows. She exposes the soft tissue
of her mouth and tongue, the lights that follow
the Sun around the earth. I cannot swallow
my pride, the poems, the ridiculous clues

and inferred arguments. Her blood is red
and warm again, the lines of a grey graphite
are spelling letters. I have never dared

to love someone so surely the opposite
of me. I wander about the content shared
in a field of undistinguished brilliant white.

The changing months bring out different bugs

The changing months bring out different bugs
and lizards, the tree starts a dialogue
with the sky. I hear the movement of frogs
in the underbrush, the synthetic drugs

in the cabinet. She lies down on a rug
with a geometric pattern and a thick fog
fills the room like morning. The monologue
of the blue jays, the shroud and the shrug

of a confused mystic. The leaves of oaks
and maples fall and the footsteps of loud
squirrels dart across the roof. Sunlight breaks

the branches brilliantly, the warm red blood
and the buzzing sounds. The weather soaks
the earth completely making a dark mud.

I can hear the movement of the water

I can hear the movement of the water
in the old air conditioner. The lace
that covers her lewd body, the wet ice
on her pink skin. The sky is the theatre

of the Sun, the stars that rise up later
establish language. I measure the cadence
of her love, the contours of her face
and the undulation of belly. Then, after

making love to her that curving river
is trapped as a lake. I can hear again
the movement of the water, the quick fever

she brings over me after the first quatrain
and the turning rhetoric. I feel a fire
that easily resists the falling rain.

Lover, see how the fire is moving up

Lover, see how the fire is moving up
and the water moving down? How the known
universe confounds us, how we are thrown
through grammars without reason? In the cup

of light that is the Moon the tide of ships
is reflected. Somehow I am still drawn
to her celestial body, the hanging gown
of clouds that obscures it. I feel a drop

of rain, a teardrop that my beloved left
on her rising breast. The movement of straight
hair in the whirling wind, the boat drifts

on the open ocean as the dim twilight
sets quietly. The wanderings of a craft
that doesn't know its left from its right.

The words I read, the images that I see

The words I read, the images that I see
in the changing light. The names that crouch
in elliptical orbit, the horizon touches
the heaven and the earth. At its apogee

the Moon is at its smallest and the free
white light moves quietly. She is couched
by the black ecliptic, I haven't thought much
about the narrative of ankles and knees

or the choreography of breath. I can smell
the warmth of her hair, the light that is cast
about the room by her eyes. I nearly fell

in love again, language receives the test
of faith. She is the mystery I tell
in every poem and always hope to taste.

The curving fingers of her open hand

The curving fingers of her open hand
receive the pouring water. She had put
her lips up to mine and her extended foot
pointed its toe out. The broad, rolling land

extended toward the horizon, a yellow band
was wrapped around her finger and the roots
of trees became restricted. The new shoots
of young flowers or the way that she stands

in the warm Sun on her toes. Her white arms
and shoulders, look how the rain just begs
for the earth to receive it. I'm the storm

we can't make sense of, a rhetorically vague
argument. Lo! the muscles of her firm
stomach are flexing as she lifts her leg.

The sobbing frogs, the definite articles

The sobbing frogs, the definite articles
that litter the verse, the fictive libraries
and foreign grammars. I'm in a labyrinth
without a map, the words no longer words

and sounds no longer sounds. Lover, I can't
make sense of anything because I don't
want to. The moment that I distinguish
between subject and object I seem lost

in a doomed argument. The whispered bugs
and napping birds, the sleeping trees allow
my heart a thought. I observe the attitudes

of grass and water, of the burning lamp
in the little window. She moves without name
in the darkness of a forgotten language.

For the leaves that I couldn't find a word

For the leaves that I couldn't find a word
for, for the weather that never seemed hotter
than that one June, for the mysterious letter
she sent without an address. Simple chords

seem simple no longer, the singing birds
build nests in the trees before it gets wetter
in the spring. The colored glass is shattered
on the garage floor and light reflects toward

her tired eyes. I just can't seem to make sense
of the movement of the wind, the awful science
of prayer or the architectures that condense

as clouds in the sky. What else might influence
me but her? Her task unfolds in the tense
expansion and contraction of this sentence.

The tree's shadow extends, the passing minutes

The tree's shadow extends, the passing minutes
are drawn across the ground. The birds are lovers
in the silent sky, their songs change by the hour
as dusk approaches. I can taste the absolute

in the tart berries, in the bitter and mute
steel that vibrates. The grey clouds that pour
the rain over the leaves, the lights that tour
the heavens in cyclic patterns. Her attributes

are beyond sight and sound, the passing seconds
are of no consequence. I fashion a frame
for her essence, a symbol for the short pond

that holds her feet. I wander in the sublime
atmosphere, the emerald grass and the diamond
surface of the water seem to suspend time.

The way she moves in the spectacular heavens

The way she moves in the spectacular heavens
is a novel rhetoric, the muscles that pulse
in her arms and legs. I can hear the wars
of prior lands, the histories of mountains

and valleys, the sufferings of the stones
that are pulverized to sand. The way the clouds
desert this land, the turning orange layers
of rock, the thirsty plants. I am the soft

and wet ground after rain, the turning sod
of a fertile field. The way she moves is not
to be described, is a mystery that science

can't illumine. I'm wandering the symbols
of myth and legend, rearranging the epics
and trying to conceive something I can't.

The perfect stillness of a simple morning

The perfect stillness of a simple morning
without her, the changing hues are deepening
in the heavens. She moves from the evening
through the Sun, she is the blessed learning

of a lover's orbit. See the clouds adorning
her surface like clothing, see the bending
rays, refracted light. I am the maddening
poet without her love, the lamp that's burning

oil for another. The brilliant lustre
of her wet eyes, the prayers above the altar,
the mutterings of saints. She is the master

of my heart and being, the resplendent nectar
of beautiful flowers. The Earth's bright sister
traversing the nothing between the stars.

The doors within the house outline the black

The doors within the house outline the black
of sky, the yellow stars, the wandering gold
of planets. The air is dry and crisp, the cold
winter months brood loneliness, I am back

from the horizon of time. She is what I lack
in my heart, what the verses of the old
masters represents. I observe the folding
tapestries, the leaves of books, the stacks

of scripture in the shadows. Two-faced Janus
connects subject and object, I have studied
the undulating clouds, the virtue of pious

Aeneas. O night reveal the awful duty
of independent spirit! The rise of Venus
illumines morning with ecstatic beauty.

Four or five hours, dodecasyllabic verse

Four or five hours, dodecasyllabic verse,
she took her clothes off in the Sunlight, above
the clouds were white and purple. The purpose
of her breath was lost somehow, the intent

of her love and movement is obscure. Odalisques
recline in frames on the walls, the technique
she uses to render color, the folding text
and texture of the veils. I am in love

with her disclosed beauty, with the vowels
her mouth pronounces, with the curvature
of hip and breast. I slept between the dreams

of a cold winter and the square mattress
in a dim light. She wasn't what I thought
she would be and that made all the difference.

Nor shall you pass unnoticed in these verses

Nor shall you pass unnoticed in these verses
for you are all that's known. The second person
is object of an ideal, the incommensurate
heavens revolve. I'm loving the simple poetry

of her body beneath the veil, the transparency
of the clouds before the Sun. You are ubiquitous
in the world and ever-present, your presence
is like that of the air. I cannot breathe in

without hearing your spirit, the quick exercises
of your muscles in the morning, the dim rising
stars and the wisps of clouds. I have noticed

the shape of your tongue, the rounded contour of
your hips. Lover, you are all that I know
in the songs my body writes without willing.

Lover, this austere madness, the awful fire

Lover, this austere madness, the awful fire
of want in my body. The intoxicating lust
of a hungry man, the ways the birds adjust
their song with the changing shadow. The choir

of stars that confuse the night. Lover, desire
annihilates me easily, desire has exhausted
my reason and its measure. I cannot trust
the knowing of my eyes, their solemn affair

with the objects of the world seems to offer
nothing to my soul. The curious red marks
on her legs and thighs, the awful suffering

of the burning trees. Lover, the mysterious work
of gods bewilders the living. Beautiful weather
is pierced by rolling clouds that bring the dark.

Words and names, the letters that are sovereigns

Words and names, the letters that are sovereigns
of the breath of men. The rising, awesome yell
of the ocean and the valley, the furious hell
of volcanic supremacy. I wander the foreign

languages without direction, I have to assign
a sound to a thing. I have removed the shell
of the seed, the skin of the fruit, and the bells
of a church are sounding. In the falling rain

she cries and is alone. The wandering spheres
accelerate in their orbit, white light bathes
her body in a confused meaning. Now she wears

the heavens as her veil, the decadent maths
of a mystic as her perfume. The texture tears
as the thunder's sound reminds me of death.

A shuffling of bodies or the Interstate

A shuffling of bodies or the Interstate
highways and the roadsigns. The rotation
of the earth creates illusions, the stations
are hierarchies about god. The elaborate

veils, the raiment, jewels and the late
setting Mars. I can read the education
of the pastures in the stars, the sedation
of yellow flowers, the river flows at a rate

that I'm unfamiliar with. How planets yearn
for direct motion! How the awful, foul
smell rises in the swamp! I wasn't born

of dirt to thirst for light alone, the dull
library obscures the meaning. I return
to a prostrate position under your rule.

The fury of the stars and the vain kiss

The fury of the stars and the vain kiss
of Sunlight, the moving witness of a jealous
moon that wanes. I touch her with the calloused
tips of my fingers, the ceiling fan hisses

and rattles in the silence. I have passed
like clouds over the land, I am the zealous
heaven governing love, I am the ridiculous
dogma of a curious sect. O how I miss

the language of your body, the awful crime
your eyes reveal! Look how the silent guide
brings light to day, see how the hours of time

continue without reason. I am inside
her like a vowel in a word or rhymes
in verses. She's the mystery I have hidden.

She warms him in a soft embrace. At once

She warms him in a soft embrace. At once
the trees awake and speak, the purple flowers
arouse the bees. I'm thinking of the names
of leaves and grasses, of the oak leaf's shape

and how I know that I love her. The beautiful
verses seem like a clothing that is worn
by a changing understanding. These infinite
labyrinths of meaning, semantic nonsense

that veils the beloved. I remember the books,
their yellowed pages, the peculiar smell
of her body in the morning. She is softer

than morning light, than the fuzzy wanderer
on the eastern horizon. At once, I am awake
because of the spirit she blows through me.

Whirling Apollo or her body that lies

Whirling Apollo or her body that lies
on the maroon couch, the malleable truth
of a wandering rhetoric. I opened my mouth
to say her name, whatever it was, to fly

like the clouds above the rivers. I am my
own truth and her lie, she is ripening youth
assailing me. I know the light of faith
and the darkness of an argument. Her lingerie

is like the changing weather, I can't live
without irrational love. The birds that cry
in the distance, the love that sings and moves

the air. She's a wordless body, a little sigh
between articulations. I'm not in love
with anything but a light that never dies.

But Venus, the bright goddess, bearing gifts

But Venus, the bright goddess, bearing gifts
began the thing with a turn. The morning light
began to obscure her, I wondered if Jupiter
was the same yellow, wondered if the bright

gift of the Sun was infinite. She had said
how she was open like a flower that is
reaching toward the sky. I saw the display
of the heavens whirling, the bent spectacle

of blue-lit atmosphere. O love disorients
me with her tropes in different orders, with
delusions, denials, obfuscates realities

with convoluted illusions. But Venus, bright
and bare above the water, has disclosed
her self in word and name. What do I do?

The shadow that I leave or that I take

The shadow that I leave or that I take
with me through language, the light limiting
the objects of a god. The infinite aspects
of whirling luminaries, the evil prayers

of mumbling charlatans. She casts a shadow
on the soft wet earth and the tall tree
reaches its arms toward the Sun. I love her
without a reason, without coherent argument

nor appropriate measure. The playful illusion
that's cast on the walls, there are no barriers
for the beloved in this place. Not even words

can hold her, the cycles of warm red hearts
that communicate love. I am the leaves
that wait to fall when everything is silent.

You're what the rivers run to, the wide ocean

You're what the rivers run to, the wide ocean
that knows all time. The softened tufts and plumes
of feathered life, we only know the foam
of her infinity. The water has a new meaning

in the third cycle, she used her breath to clean
the mirror and see her face. The silent dome
of heaven was listening above when she came
finally. The undulations of a warm woman

or the music of grey clouds that continue
to change their shape. The wide ocean has
a way of knowing beyond barrier and virtue,

beyond word and name. The turning oak leaves
prophesy quietly, the expanse of a clear blue
sky resonates with a mysterious sound wave.

I squinted my eyes. The luminescent gods

I squinted my eyes. The luminescent gods
moved at an imagined depth, the maroon gown
of dusk fell on the canal. When the Sun
is gone the birds and trees whisper the odd

secrets of night, the curvature of a good
universe. From higher ground the water runs
down through this delta, above the funny
cows are cloudy words. I wander the wood

without a map, we're singing without thought
illumined by the Moon. The stars that wait
to show themselves selectively, the weight

of her warm body swallowing me. I'm with
the birds in the broad sky, I'm with the light
that gives the misty pasture its sure faith.

Shapes within the frames, the frames of shapes

Shapes within the frames, the frames of shapes,
the triangles and cylinders, the necklaces
she adorns her shoulders with, the lustre of
a gem and prism. I am wandering these heavens

like planets in epicycles, like calendars wander
a foreign culture. Look at the letters that
are drawn by the stars, the language of the clouds
and the emotion of the Sun itself. Her eyes

have pierced the armor of the crab, have pierced
the obfuscation of the rhetoric. I want
to possess her like capital, to hold her down

in the bed and have her violently. The contours
of the violin suggest the rolling curvature
of the Appalachian Mountains' natural beauty.

Scattered books, exposed arms in the early

Scattered books, exposed arms in the early
morning, the whispers and sighs of weather
outside the window. I opened her short letter
and read the words, I had waited for nearly

an hour for the Moon the rise. The southerly
winds were pushing moisture, she is better
than any beloved I've imagined. I can't get her
within my apprehension, I am now utterly

lost without her light. The pale and mellow
pinks and blues of the sky color the love
I have for her. The flat and stretching low

clouds are purple. She is the perched dove
on the powerlines, the Sun becoming yellow
as it takes the sky and slowly starts to move.

The way the light pierces the trees, the dawn

The way the light pierces the trees, the dawn
which is for all that begins to break the cold
of night, the silence of death. I reach to hold
the browning leaves that litter the wet lawn

in chaotic patterns. The hanging chimes are drawn
with brittle charcoal, tints of silver and gold
limit our being. I don't know if the older
pages turn into seeds, if the squirrels yawn

when they're tired. Maybe the bluejay is a monk
in the maple tree, an ascetic moving right
and left in the morning. My bare feet sunk

into the mud, here it's noon, there it's midnight
and it just gets more confusing. I am drunk
on the way her lingerie reflects this light.

Conceits upon conceits, diamonds and pearls

Conceits upon conceits, diamonds and pearls,
elaborated nonsense, evaporated conceptions
of the real in diffuse documents. Mumbled sects
and befuddled heresiarchs, the sky is brown

or green or blue, maybe purple. The Sun sets
when it rises, the surreality of the stars
is reduced to art. Remember when her form
was something exciting? When the power of

her attraction really mattered? O how words
have failed in the endeavor to bridge the infinite
and definite worlds! A string of words attempt

to illumine the sequence of becoming. A jewel
adorns her curved forehead, I'm mystified by
the riddles and rhymes she weaves into a verse.

The movement of the water that I'm hearing

The movement of the water that I'm hearing
in clouds, the falling leaves from oak trees,
the spirals in the air. I have often seen
birds silhouetted in the sky, I can't bear

to lose the sight of her, to lose the star
that orients me on this sphere. Her knees
and legs, her arms and shoulders all agree
with the language of my god. All that she wears

obscures her truth, but the occulting swells
my intoxication with her. I have wasted
my being expressing the heavens and hells

of a separate personal existence. The chaste
planets seems to shimmer and I can smell
her warming body, its contour I can taste.

She exposed her stomach. The wide berth of hips

She exposed her stomach. The wide berth of hips
like a continental plain, like a milky way
or a river of dim stars. I opened my eyes
to her stupefying mystery, incoherent code

and mumbled jargon. She has shown herself
the way a flower does, the way that blossoms
begin to line the roadsides in Spring. I have
not known a geography like her before, not known

an encyclopedia as dense, a choreography as
deft as that of her thighs. The water moved
in the words I spoke, in the muscles of my tongue

and the legislation of my poetry. I have held
the light of gods in sound, the awful music
of the ruler which is beyond all knowledge.

The rose of cheeks, the hair in flow and flux

The rose of cheeks, the hair in flow and flux
about her shoulders, the seam of the plain
clothing she is wearing. I hear the trains
make a sound five miles a way, the Moon waxes

above the bayou whose scent mingles with roux
and a marsh fire. The tide begins to wane
in the early morning, I start to explain
the flight of birds, their song and their sex

to her. This whirling system seems a dance
of intoxicated gods, watch the satellite fill
with white light and move in the dark space

between the stars. The stuck sound of the walls,
the openings of doors, who among this place
can describe her with recourse to the real?

I had this weird dream with her broad and soft

I had this weird dream with her broad and soft
back exposed, the dark blue and elastic jeans
stretched around her thighs, repeated images
I'd idealized in an active intellect. She

was on her stomach like the picture, and she
had curls of hair like Venus in the painting
with the West wind and angels. I can't see
the end of this loneliness, the end of suffering

or alienation within the system. The kingdoms
of her breast divide the valleys, her wet breath
makes weather of the air. I cannot have her

nor any other being, not this beloved
nor the beauties I've imagined. Yet, I hope
tomorrow I may come to witness her grace.

If you take the weeds out there's a flower there

If you take the weeds out there's a flower there.
If you remove all the awful nonsense that
obscures the flower there are some petals of
light blue and purple, there's a stamen that leaves

its pollen in the air. If you wash the mud away
from the buried pottery you can trace the lines
of an ancient language, of a silly mystery
that confuses prophets and poets around the world

and has them shuffling for names. All the awful
nonsense of a decadent sphere, all the hatred
and ignorance of those without duty. The flower

becomes itself despite the weeds, she becomes
the object of my enlightenment, the subject
of my brief dreams and ridiculous fantasies.

All I want is morning whoever she is

All I want is morning whoever she is,
a doll or an ideal, maybe a foreign joy,
the nimble lightworker, whoever she is
I can't seem to figure it out. All I want

is this light that I can't grab, is this body
of subtle stuff that doesn't exist. The morning
is something I remember wrongly, is something
I imagine as more than it is: the pink color

of the reflected water, the contour of trees
and leaves dividing the sky. All that I want
is the end of this cold and silent night, is

the end of the lonely feelings of a god.
How might I grab what I can't apprehend
or what I am incapable of possessing?

As I write these verses I think of you

As I write these verses I think of you
singing within a dream, your ears hearing
the breeze in the tops of trees. As I write I
realize you all around me, realize a curving

horizon to the East, an orange rising Sun
in a blanket of purple cloud. Your breath moves
the Moon and stars, I'm hearing flowers sing
the modes of dew. I think of you but not

of you. I think not, pointless like the trees
and pastures, diffuse as the morning fog
that pronounces the water. Yet, to think

of you is to make real the imagined object
of wordless infinites. Just to perceive
your form in rhythmic lines is a blessing.

I like your brain, your arms and legs, your eyes

I like your brain, your arms and legs, your eyes,
your hair that falls in curls, your breathing lungs
and reaching hands. I like the way the words
fall from your lips, the temperature of breath

that moves across your tongue. I like your body
and what isn't your body, the subtle nonsense that
is moving in the library like the white light
of a silent sun. The contoured skin and leaves

of trees that reach their branches, the white thigh
exposed by the window's light. I like your gross
and manifest substance, the flesh that makes up

your stomach and your breasts. O beloved visit
me in the morning! Be the resplendent Sunlight
that bathes my body in a love that's infinite.

The whirling fan, the silence of the morning

The whirling fan, the silence of the morning,
when the trees are waking up from their dreams,
is broken by a sneeze. The effusive steam
is rising from the bayou, rising and turning

through the leaves of oaks. The marsh is burning
in the distance, I mix the coffee with cream
and caramel. Her thigh is stretching the seam
of the elastic jeans, a thunderstorm warning

moves across the television screen. The third
of the month, or my third true love is shaking
her body in the darkness. I started to hear

the birds wake up, her sighs, the rattlesnake
move in the tall grass. She is the songbird
that makes the trees and skies and clouds awake.

I just had this crazy dream where you were sitting

I just had this crazy dream where you were sitting
with him at work or somewhere and I worried
that it was over. What is a dream anyway?
I can't remember if the images associated

are supposed to have a meaning. Just come here
and quell these strange illusions, feed my heart
with love it longs for, feed my tired body
with bright affections. I just cannot think

without your form in mind, it's like my thought
doesn't work without you, without the standard
you set, though it may be dreamed. I am awakened

by your bare skin, by the singing of the birds
and the warm white Sun. Will you return to me
from beyond the separation of the mountains?

I miss you in the morning when the Sun

I miss you in the morning when the Sun
is not quite up, when the birds are not awake
yet, when the purple of the wide night sky
has not yet dimmed its stars. I miss you when

I wake up, when I dream and when I sleep
alone in the cold pillows. I can't take
the jostle of the world alone, I can't
move in the light without you, these illusions

assail me. When I hear the birds all singing
their morning songs I think of you, I miss
the way your skin held warmth, the timbre of

your voice on the telephone, the way you said
you loved me and you meant it. In the morning
I am alone and I don't know if you're real.

Beloved, I've found you here amongst the shelves

Beloved, I've found you here amongst the shelves,
the channels and the stations of the mind,
among the numbered archives that populate
your sacred and ridiculous being. Beloved,

you're in the words I say, the ways I feel,
even within the water that I am drinking
which falls from the sky. Beloved, you contain
multitudes, leagues, indefinite geometries

of becoming. But you can't disclose to me
the depth of your truth, the reach of your beauty
about the globe in blank verse repetitions

of sound and syllable. Beloved, the music
of love moves trees and birds, it moves the stars
through separation into a glorious unity.

The empty page, the unadorned and pure

The empty page, the unadorned and pure
blue above, the ungoverned wind that whips
through the trees without thought. I am a ship
on an unnavigable ocean, the clouds obscure

the stars and Sun, the wisps of water injure
the astrolabe's readings. I trace her hip
the way the boat rides water, her thin slip
is tossed across the room. I am unsure

of the meaning of any of this, which hints
are to be pursued, why the lipstick on the cuff
of my shirt is so dark. The soft-tan tint

of her skin is like a book and each leaf
discloses a new mystery. The narrative went
from page to page and I slowly drifted off.

The third quarter of the white orbiting Moon

The third quarter of the white orbiting Moon
reflects the Sun's light onto the wet and sad
bayou. I'm thinking of the stars, a myriad
of lights suspended, the dawn brings a maroon

tint to the sky. The birds sense the monsoon
and protect their nests from the sting of bad
winds and rains. It's like the animals read
the sky and know the time, know what is noon

and what is midnight. I calculate the wane
and wax of moons, I measure out how I feel
depending upon her faces. The whirling hurricane

moves over the ocean, I press the wax that seals
the letter shut. Her bare skin is as profane
as the nude Moon above revolving in a wheel.

I find room in my phone for sexting God

I find room in my phone for sexting God
even though He doesn't exist and the memory
is running out. I'm using these weird jokes on Him
that I learned from Twitter, a bunch of awful puns

and offensive tripe. These poets in these webs
of protocols and hypertexts, the juvenile
and decadent vulgarity of art is disgusting.
Or is it? The dumb sex of the conceptual

artists, the relational nonsense of a kid
that's drunk on Kosuth. I find room without
myself for consciousness and the body of

my Beloved writhes in an image file. O God!
turn off the Internet! The withered queries
of nodes are almost too much for me to take.

I find room in my heart for serving God

After da Lentin's 'Io rn'aggio posto in core a Dio servire'

I find room in my heart for serving God
somehow, although the blessings of Paradise
seem illusory. Whatever the poets have said
and sung, or put in verses, will not suffice

despite their beauty. Wherever the Sun treads
it leaves its light, its illuminated face
brings joy to the oak trees and flowers. Indeed,
who is here but God? Who is arbiter of bliss

that's infinite? Whose action and intent
is beyond comprehension? The rain falls here
and there, the bayous and pastures seem content

with the moisture. I'm running up the stairs
of the beloved's house, the energy I've spent
is like the Sunlight reaching everywhere.

Lover, the dream is wandering a nonsense

Lover, the dream is wandering a nonsense
that I can't comprehend. I wake at four
or five in the morning, the dawn is eternal
in the East. This hypnagogic state reveals

a twist of form, a whirl of verse, a vortex
of energies. Lover, the dreams of time
are a wandering river that changes banks
and fills the gulf with life. Floating images

and flying clouds, carpets, fluid tapestries
and geometric raiment. This surreality
is a program of tropes, her breast and hair,

her arms, her breath articulates asleep
and awake. This brief dream is a light
that moves as a script in the purple heaven.

The yawning life in the bark, the brown water

 After Borges ' Ars Poetica'

The yawning life in the bark, the brown water
sustains the leaves, the winding of the river
describes the delta. The lakes written by rivers
with elbows and arms that distribute the water

as if it were a language. The bayous sleep
and the pastures are quiet under the death
of night. How quick and senseless is the death
of the moth? How mysterious is the sleeping

planet, the wandering labyrinthine symbol
without a definition? The Sun whirls in years,
a dozen here and there, a thousand years
without a thought or language, without symbols

illuminating god. We've marked the Sunset
with an architecture, the ridiculous poetry
of mystics, the juvenile exercises of poetry
encumbered by a vanity. The wide Sun sets

on the flat water and I remember the face
of my beloved, the face that, like a mirror,
shows only my self. The dreaming water mirrors
illusions, makes ambiguous her soft face

and discloses her heart. The expanding breast
of the blue jay sings a song, I am in love
with a brief dream, I am maddened by a love
that knows no bounds! O love! O virgin breast!

Are we not but asleep? The unveiled end
is somehow veiled again, the Sun's the same
in any hemisphere. The bark is the same
at the beginning of the tree as at the end.

Lover, the movement of the turning stars

Lover, the movement of the turning stars
is reflected in the water of the bayou.
The cows are listening, the birds I hear
are living in the trees, the light of truth
moves silently on the ground. There is an art
to the way you breathe, to the way that you

move your eyes and use your gaze. Is your
allure beyond the zodiac? The fixed stars
don't move, the shaman practices archaic art
and describes a new calendar. The bayou
becomes a clock that may reveal the true
declination of the Sun's path. The wide ears

of frogs are listening and the owl's ears
hear syllabic phrases. I'm imagining you
as the light in pools on the floor, the truth
of an obscure philosophy. The yellow star
that brings the day to the pasture and bayou
gives my eyes your image, it gives my art

its subject. Clouds are wandering the art
of a blue sky, the cows must be hearing
the changing air pressure. Along the bayou
the grass is dying, the morning air is your
cold breath, the twinkling of the white stars
reveals the wetness of your eyes. The true

and sure way isn't revealed, I see the truth
escape like a wisp of smoke. An orange star
moves in the air above the fire whose ears
have heard the trees. I am in love with you,
the way you sleep, your dreaming surreal art,
I can't help it. I trace the lines of bayous

with my fingers, trace the paths of bayous
in the broad heaven, examine the truths
the shadows of the trees reveal. It's our
duty to move toward the only infinite art
that escapes expression. Lover, we must hear
the whispers of the luminaries, the stars

who move in love. The startling Sun is truly
revealed above the bayou, I can hear
the art that resides in no one but you.

This dull sweat, the scent of myself between

This dull sweat, the scent of myself between
the clothing and the seat. How the Buddhas line
themselves on the windowsill and the yellow light
peeks into her eyes directly! The angel's arrows

are sharp and pierce the outer surfaces of
the architecture. If the light were not directed
through the tall windows the art would not work.
I'm breathing and coughing, the coffee turns brown

and black in the bottom of the cup. I smell garlic
and cheese, the days are colder without you
to hold and taste, without your porcelain skin

and exposed breast. O how I breathe the weather
that torments whole communities! O how the dull
and damp light does not meet my appetite!

The rain is falling from the sky like words

The rain is falling from the sky like words
in sentences that don't make sense. The flame
of the lamp flickers, all this art is a game
between all people of all eras, the chords

of now are inversions of then. I check the records
of prior weather, the canvases in frames
on the walls of the museum. She has a name
that reminds me of nothing, I can't afford

to lose this immeasured spirit. Words are tools
that fix the future, set the earth revolving
about the Sun in patterns. She is in wool

or denim, the months are filling like the twelve
full moons throughout the year. An other school
of names and propositions goes unsolved.

Thinking about poems as labyrinths. Thinking about poems

Thinking about poems as labyrinths. Thinking about poems
as churches or architectures, as instruments
that divine the motion of stars. Thinking of mantra
and prayer, of word and name and of the graphemes

that make up calligraphy. Thinking of choreographies
in libraries, semantic puzzles and lewd riddles
encoded in nonsense verse. I'm remembering the beloved
in song and rhyme, in scheme and trope, without

an anthropomorphism or an extended metaphor
that dazzles the reader. I'm thinking of conceits
as docents in the elaborate museum of time

that we're wandering helplessly. O love remind me
of the world before sense, of the undistinguished stuff
that constituted the real before any man.

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should—
I'm the buzz of incessant mosquitoes in her ear
in the early evening when the new Moon peeks
out in the West. I'm the sound that irritates

her listening, that verse that has intoxicated
her being with nefarious purpose. I am moving
between the leaves and under the bark of trees
as if I were the blood of plants. My beloved

is deserving of more than me, of more than stars
and entire galaxies, of more than mere words
and phrases arranged in stanzas. I'm the static

that fits between the stations, I'm dissonance
between disagreeable signals. My beloved
tires of the repeating aspects of my art.

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should—
I'm the song she can't avoid from hearing on
the radio every day. I'm the ubiquitous media
saturating social networks, look at the memes

that rain from the ether, the reign of a medium
beyond the voice. She tires of the many ways
I move my body, I shape a sound with my mouth
and make her wiggle. The jokes I tell are all

the same as those before, innocuous sutras
and palpable psalms, erroneous prayers and mantras
littering the cathedrals. My beloved tires

of words and phrases, images and metaphors
that try to define her. Only the breathless sky
can capture the infinite being she presents.

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should

My beloved, she tires of me, and she should—
I'm the inexhaustible song of birds, the fire
of suns that burns the desert, the unending song
of awful poets. My beloved is not persuaded

by litanies of tropes, by schemes or doctrines
designed for effect. I am the air that wears
at the stone and moves the surface of the ocean
in violent storms. My beloved is the land

that's shaped by water, the Mississippi delta
composed of silt. Each day I'm upon the task
of loving her, of remembering her names

and reciting them in succession. The recurring
dreams, recurring images, reiterations
express a moving love that is immutable.

The tilt of planets, the tilt of her bare shoulder

The tilt of planets, the tilt of her bare shoulder
under her clothes, the tilting motion of dancing
stars in the heavens. Listening to the tones
of birds, the colors of clouds and the devices

of nameless poets. Wandering fantastic mysteries
in epicycles, retrogrades and stressed aspects
between the synods. I have seen her out dancing
in the pasture, dancing in the wet brown paint

in obvious ornaments. She is like a script
that is written by a terrible god, a villanelle
of nonsense. I am beginning to apprehend

her awful secrecy, her dangerous geometries
and make calendars of her patterns. This love
I feel is a mad and delusional almanac.

The Sun rises and sets. It is October

The Sun rises and sets. It is October
again somehow and my fingertips are cold
in the early morning. Squirrels begin to build
a nest of acorns, the air is an orange and somber

color. I can remember the glorious clamor
of dozens of birds talking, the sensual folds
of her clothing and how she gasped in a wild
abandon when I touched her. The green, sober

vines were quiet, the oak was a tall obelisk
that pierced the sky without ration nor reason
and apprehended nothing. In the soft dusk

her skin was bare, there was no comparison
to her beauty. Yet, always I'm upon the task
of giving her a literal description.

The whirling air, the developing storm

The whirling air, the developing storm
in the broad ocean. The bands that warp and bend
above the waves whipped up by a churning wind
that spins above the earth. The water harms

the land, gives the mountains and valleys form
and regulates the temperature. I stand
in the morning air measuring a shadow of mind
on the soft sod, listening to birds perform

in dynamic trees. Under the undulating curtain
of cloud I hear her sing the warm and loud
song of a gypsy. O how I've longed to obtain

the beloved in an object! O how the mud
is a dark brown hue! The whirling of the rain
is a music articulated by the clouds.

Maybe Borges can teach me how to compose

Maybe Borges can teach me how to compose
sonnets in a fluid rhetoric, how to tame
the immense gulf. I'm wandering the debris
of abandoned social networks, the awful ruins

of circular libraries. In a labyrinthine mess
of philosophical systems there is a mirror
like the surface of the water at the bottom of
a well. These secret languages, fictive artifacts,

nonsense symbols and difficult koans populate
a marvelous universe that seems a dream. I see
the stars as gems, the grass as many dancers

stretching their legs. The tropes of a new sect,
these literary forgeries, a hundred and one
nights obscured myself from the true word.

Contrapposto figures, twice the equinox

Contrapposto figures, twice the equinox
equals the day and night. The humming cicada
sits on the wall and doesn't have an agenda.
The lizards eat the bugs, the paradox

of the iris grows. I put the light in a box
and try to keep it, the nonsense of Dada
or the fluid lines of a rose. The ripe vulva
and the soft petals, the awesome heterodoxy

of sex and love is displayed in the fall
of leaves in the early winter. It's the duty
of the earth to revolve, the resplendent skill

of the beloved inspires us. This ambiguity
in art, this anaphora is a violent hell
through which we wander toward infinite beauty.

Her beauty haunts me, hangs in the swamp air

Her beauty haunts me, hangs in the swamp air
like the smell of methane. Ghosts and ghouls move
in the knees of the cypress trees, above the Moon
progresses in tropes. She swings in a precession

of equinoxes, her nodes are moving across
the ecliptic in patterns. Skeleton's fingers hang
from the skinny trees and gray Spanish moss
obscures the branches. White plantation walls

show her silhouetted shadow, the bare skin
is met by a breeze from the oak. O how my love
is something to be feared! O how the occulted

Sun is deleterious! I hear the whispers
of owls in the distance and the muttering
of cicada swell their chorus in the leaves.

A couple poems designed for you, to make

A couple poems designed for you, to make
the unreal real, to make fantastics apparent
in the light of day, to realize mysteries
and claim the unattainable. A couple words

in sequence, the spill of phonemes from the lips
of a beautiful girl, the hair that falls and curls
in the humid air. I think of the yellow light
that comes from the lamp, the green shirt falling

over her thigh, the painting in the evening
that holds her ineffably. A couple lovers
wander in the infinite sound of a dream

and make nonsense of language. I am silent
within your sleeping, I am the unsaid
and unknown secret scattered among verses.

You always seemed unreal, like a cloud, a phantom

You always seemed unreal, like a cloud, a phantom
in the evening that I can't describe, a spirit
without a body, a nothing that somehow sits
in my blood and among the bayou. You are the custom

of my ancestors, the truth lying at the bottom
of the well that I can't share, you are the limit
of my seeing. From the broad earth I inherit
my feeling, from the rivers I get my freedom,

from the mountains I get words. I am the being
of trees and rain, you're the language that I trade
with the walls and birds. It seems they're agreeing

with the argument of the verse. The slight grade
of your back and hip has dazzled my poor seeing
and from nowhere I watch the changing shades.