Their world is turning on a peg,

and drenched in stillness, crooked leg,

for care of earth the sky allows

no ease between the blackened boughs.

Her head recalls the wide salute

and shadow-speaks, uncradled bow,

the branches creak, the birds are mute,

the bitter word no silence disendows.

Amherst, December 21^st, 2009

IX     Fugue

Waited, they waited

for the insurgents to weep.

They watched,

the soldiers’ survival –

crept the enemy,

time gathered, tore

at the fold,

for the day of respite.

Doves, dissolved,

for the buzzing,

for the stumbled upon –

waited, they waited,

got on.

No longer did

the word bring joy,

sorrow was

dearth

and the food

bitter.

Houses;

they were left.

High up,

the doves soared;

the reprimanding,

they were left;

sprawled

like graves,

the choking bricks.

Dust,

the doves,

embrace,

they waited,

and the stars glimmered,

release us.

One By One

They said

they were clearing the way

for doves

to carry away a flag of blood.

If I scatter

and dismantle birds

for the language of everywhere,

I will still carry around

the residue of my dreams

in the morning,

for my father’s voice

and my own,

and the smoothness

of his wood carvings.

I have never gathered my selves

like a bundle of silver wheat,

nor whispered a thousand names

in one word to the ink of dawn.

For a Poet

 

I came upon your house to see,

insomniac and breathing twice,

your whitest hand, held out to me

as friendship, dream and perilous vice.

I trembled forward, fearful of death,

glimpsing another in passing:

a vacant stare and a flower’s sweet breath,

what was lost, never again –

is that your muse that’s laughing?

I saw the desperate – reaching pain –

stuffed in the coffer by the bed.

I found a truth held in the strain

that stretched the dreaming in my head.

And to the mirror to the south

I crept on trepid feet to see –

your noble face stared back at me

an indignant “no!” twisting from your mouth.

 

Amherst, November 20^th–23^rd, 2009

Given in Ash
For Tyshawn Sorey
 

Piled high are the commandments

for the elders and enemies

have spoken, all.

With a drift of smoke,

the muse’s song,

a draft from the abyss;

the ancient story held in ice

for thirst

to scorn the moon’s last kiss.

Chaos held firm between reason’s teeth

for wanton breath, thoughtless whims –

scattered justice, given in ash

for sight and sightless return

to home and homelessness.

Amherst, November 16^th-19^th, 2009

Rainbows and Lye

Dedicated to the victims of September 11^th
 

Snake dreams dancing

in and out of ears,

spat out in the dawn,

carrying on from the day that hate was born.

Angels are hanging on this blackened day,

suspended in garments of silk

above the gaping tomb;

shadows walk forth down the ancient way

to greet with burning blackness honeyed milk,

in the folds of memory’s womb.

And virtue spreads its poison wings

across the yellow sky –

rainbows and lye,

rainbows and lye,

streaming down from the Sun’s bloodshot eye.

And I’m begging, begging

for roses to die,

I’m praying, praying

to the wallowing sky,

for I am as wretched

as the innocent,

swallowing a bestial cry.

Amherst, late September, early October, 2009