Sunday, December 16, 2012

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.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

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.

Monday, December 10, 2012

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.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

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.

Monday, December 3, 2012

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.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

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.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

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.