There was home.
Clay closed around
There was a time.
When we were burning,
working under the
astronomy of the leaves.
There was a tool
and we planned like kings
some horizon for our blood.
There was house.
A storm made of war
like a word made of hell.
There was a continent.
A march across a broad
month in groups of large
There was a trauma.
Mucous like iron
in the continuous
light of the extinct.
There was a mountain.
An absolute struggle
where almost cosmos.
There was a square.
Where mystery was
a brilliant white arc.
There was a home.
When purpose and space
were known a hundred
There was a home.
When water was the only
line of music under
of the cloud.
I must define this face
this race, the naive momentum
my thoughts the piano’s encroachment
the solitaire’s monastery is my wheel
a soft raised convicting finger my stubborn engine
the long march into centuries and legends
a lost Carolingian desperation;
the Great You that almost Latinized me
in my march, my boundary
I travel with leather and spices
and the abridged and insufficient scrolls
that keep names and wars as causes
this drag of history
a story of everything for no one in particular
lines that remember sleepy pope eyes
puddles of blood and new routes to fame;
I must define this outcome
declare it a migrating art
a necessary war
an early appearance or a rapid descent
the ambiguous year of transformations
a division in which hands fall
deep to the middle of the earth
at the center of time
an indiscriminate movement
in nobody’s control.
The sky: my desperate dispersion
an expansion creeping slowly in
the autumn fields of my lost war
manifest the gesture that condemns me
to seek lavishly the sighs of unnamed
saints and mystics
heavy with the saddle of onrushing years
seeping the dripping paint
like the dance of mechanical yesterdays
the grave of my birth and burying
thus a multitude of poems – astray
detached from the events of time
isolated in the nirvana of untouched perception
sky, fragment of other lives
or why November and dying
that last sullen word behind chaos
a miniature spot
whose own language
cannot participate in its description
thus the sky and the lesser me
thus a slow sleep in an immense unuttered world.