fingertips glow in the skin of their days.
FROM The Willow Wind
1972
Noah’s / Dove
The moon is black.
Had I a bird
it would fly,
beat the air into land.
To remain
or trust
the silver leaves of the sea?
What if
I say what is:
no bird, no land.
The sea tossing
its damp wet fish
on the bow,
their lungs exhaling
the sea, taking in
moon air
for the first time …
The Wood Whittler
Whales and fish
sailing
in the sky!
Old saws! Old saws!
Red flakes
falling off the wood
like leaves.
Fire?
The woodcutter
pares the skin
with a
knowing hand.
The blade—rude—
will carve
his / mind’s mastery
in the /
witless earth.
Li Po
Jarred.
The oars creaked in their locks.
Fish beneath the moon.
Cradled his pen
filled with wine.
A goddess stirred,
rocked the cradle of his boat,
let the silent fish know
a dreamer’s silver hands were at work.
Pegasus on a Pipe
He would ride the moon,
prod the slow seahorse with a cake of salt
and when it broke sweat,
urge it ease,
watch the wings sprout, remorseless.
Miracles
His lens misses her,
the leaves cast double reflections
on the glass. The one
is his shadow; as he leans up
he discovers a new perspective,
a range he never considered.
The leaves, shaggy edged,
twirl the light in their hands.
A new source; he must
pay his respects deftly.
They have his power.
He must acquaint them
with this peripheral vision—
the woman walking down the steps
is no longer his wife.
The Execution of Maximilian
Muskets triggered a white smoke,
and it fell like snow,
soft death to purple eyes.
I saw the clean glint of the man’s pants,
and knew what was coming,
hit the ground for the last time.
And the snow covered me like a corpse.
They mistook me for one
who had lain there a long time.
And they rushed on instead
to the crumpled body by the wall,
stuck their bayonets in
laughing, and jostled each other on the shoulder
like friends long unseen, now returned.
Sound Lag
His glazed lips
moved slower
than the
movement of words.
Overhead, black clouds
were poised
in the sky,
then moved on.
In the real sky
they had
no place to go.
The air cooled to zero.
I look again at myself
in the mirror.
The veins of the dark trees
outside
vibrate.
Their song is, at least,
mine, but
I am engaged elsewhere.
I extend my hand
through the glass
into the living world.
Sliding Away
Your hand rigid, curled into its final shape:
the rest of your body breathes.
The dark coals you pour on his grave
continue to breathe.
A snake slides through the
uneven grass
where it has cut a
name for
itself
by
sliding away.
Strawberries in Wooden Bowls
You carry flowers in a jug of green wine,
and the smell is that of the first fires in autumn
when the leaves are blown into their reds and grays.
The sunlight rains through the glass.
As you