I slept above the city
And in my dream
Many chasms opened
Of the dead appeared.
Love was rising from hell
Broken hands, Dante’s missing jaw,
The hoof on an ox…
I rose higher
Was harder to see.
“Ah,” said a voice not my own,
“This is when the soul hears best.”
I write poems like a poor farmer digging up stones…
The farmers of Finland shipped granite to America.
The Americans used the Finnish rock for tombstones.
The history of shoveling
Isn’t innocent, nor has it been written.
En route the granite served as ballast in great ships.
The gardener cherishes a black flower–
Sad napkin: it is a Lepidopterist’s poem
Out of Hades he comes, eyes calm
But quick step—
We’d say “command”
If we could
But words fail.
They say love goes easily
Toss your hair
Mind your roots
Is it too late
To admit my poverty
Lines in a notebook, “live for a time, after all…”
Even with coming rain
Our dream rain
May you be happy
Dear Id: I have just now stepped off the train. I have raised the flag. I am standing in tall weeds.
You shouldn’t care about my habits of mind so forgive me. The branches of the yew are fragrant. And small birds I can’t identify are high in its branches.