Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon
who is too bold. I never felt a wound
more fair than she, her soft eye discourses
with all the admired beauties of Verona.

Two of the fairest stars in all of heaven
are pale with grief. That she knew she were
the twinkle of the spheres, another word
in a letter. She speaks, yet she says nothing

that birds would sing. The business disclosed
in the language of the walls: it is my love
that will answer it. She leans her cheek

upon the monologue, and none but fools
do wear the daylight as a lamp. Her eyes
shame the stars that break through the window.

Who are you again? How am I to know

Who are you again? How am I to know

If you're my sister or brother? Which sign

Should I believe? Which mysterious witness

Harbors the long-forgotten evidence?

How am I supposed to know if it's you?

Perhaps you are my father? Or my son?

What is it that these antecedents refer

To essentially? And who are you again?

I don't believe I know you, but these eyes

Are known to play games and to persuade

Me into accepting facts like opinions.

But am I to trust my own understanding

Or to follow the person beyond the names,

Who has dared to make my paths straight?

I could not deal but with the cruel hand

I could not deal but with the cruel hand

That ruled me. A feeling of strangeness ran

Down my fingers and between thin strands

Of falling hair when a right-handed woman

Performed actions independent of the plan.

She could not deal with the blessed land

Governed by disease. A willing fate and

Wit oriented the limb and gave commands,

Such as rubbing the eyes, discerning bands

Of light or wiping the face. She couldn't expand

Upon it further, especially with the grand

Sensations coursing through both hands.

For when this mysterious affliction began

It appeared to take on a mind of its own.

He left the settlement to the mercy of

He left the settlement to the mercy of

The cataclysmic weather. Another juror

Fabricated a history of amusements

And distractions for neglected workers.

He left the territory to the wrath of

Religion and the whim of a capricious

Politician. Another relic legitimated

A doctrinal belief for hallowed citizens.

The imminent theme moved in spite of

Nothing, while the studied astronomer

Prepared a prophecy for the sovereign.

The instruments themselves witnessed

An article of faith professed, the principle

He took with him when he abandoned this.

Whose rays reveal a foundation of knowledge

Whose rays reveal a foundation of knowledge

A canopy of stars or a sky stretched out

Like a tent from horizon to horizon

Whose light gives object to the reaching flowers

Tremendous trees, proud plants, terrible storms

Seeking the new in the practiced old

Whose triune project is beyond believing

Or in a mysterious realm where the view

Is religious disbelief in some method

Whose glorious policy extends in language

Over oceans, meeting every shore with life

Reflected on the surface of the water

Whose divine understanding allows clouds

To leave teachings on the tender grass

Vanishing in the distance she is revealed

Vanishing in the distance she is revealed

Whose architecture is littered with symbols

Obscured by the always-changing weather

Whose name resounds in the remembered halls

Of prayer or the forgotten doors of worship

That welcome the wanderers on pilgrimage

Whose music bathes in pentagonal windows

Where warm Sunlight pours across her body

Between her calligraphic breasts and thighs

Whose mysteries unfold in narrow pathways

And labyrinthine maps of foolish history

Whose politics acknowledge metaphysics

Yet declare the heavens a glorious god

Proclaiming the honor of her wise hand

He's laying in the bed. She's standing in

After Munch's "Death of Marat"

He's laying in the bed. She's standing in

the space between him and the table where

various spheres lie. Is it just an illusion

of blood and lust? A confused dark gesture

in the contour of an expressed nightmare?

She sees herself: her golden hair turns red

like the insides of a body. The man swims

in the obscure psychology of imagined

boundaries. Suggestions in the intimate

shadows render their violent appetites

on linens, cover them in the warm life

of terrible intercourse with the beloved.

But who is to say if the confessed scream

reveals anything beyond what we dream?

The sound was this overwhelmed liturgy

The sound was this overwhelmed liturgy

Of light filtered through the open windows,

Percussive rain and birds arranging themselves

In the wide branches of the old pin oak.

The sight was this disoriented library

Of music moving across the open threshold

Of the mind, disorganizing new grammars

In the leaves of an unreal old book.

The very nature of her was confusing

Despite illumined experience, despite belief,

Sure testimony and deliberate science.

But the sound didn't move without reason,

Nor the sight disclose what is unknown

Without inspiring more of this nonsense.

I went to the bayou to breathe in the Sunrise

I went to the bayou to breathe in the Sunrise,

To observe the wading of herons and egrets,

To study the weather, the way that the clouds fly

Into the horizon without any regrets.

I went to the edge of the water to listen

To bugs and to birds and the whispers of freedom,

To myth as it was in the very beginning:

Obscure and mysteriously recollected.

The sky seemed to be the dull color of grasses,

The water reflected the turning of heaven,

The golden, enlightened Sunrays had gone past me;

This threshold of knowledge and burden of reason

Determine my seeing, but hopefully—at last—

I'll know the oblivious morning's soft breathing.

The still surface of the muddy water

The still surface of the muddy water

Lies at the obscured root of the flower.

I squint when I am looking at the picture

Of her, the one where she's bending over

The fire, her clothes are loose and disordered.

The curve of heaven knows me as a lover

Of weather that moves in uneven measures,

Of the iridescent undulating clouds

That wander over the rolling pasture.

At the root of the flower is the mover

Of doctrine in soft rain, is the teacher

Bringing knowledge about the beloved.

The moving limit of the muddy water

Hides in the occult history of flowers.

This moving surface of reflected water

This moving surface of reflected water,

The vaulted sky slowly revealing something

That's very mysterious. This old picture

Of her in tight blue jeans, the boxes of things

Forgotten or remembered in an order

Prescribed years ago. This wandering nothing

Without name nor figure, the simple measure

Of silence. This revelation of anything

Thunders mercilessly across the pastures

Of the mind, obscures the labyrinthine things,

Obfuscates the blossom. This patient teacher

Created in the image of everything

Confounds me, but I believe there's something

More than the unclear surface of the water.