Poetry
four
candor repeats paranoia
The sun one day for pity went
so pale, when I met you, and
never did guard myself either. Time did not
appear, you know? When Love’s blows fell I
walked without suspicion, thus my
woes began amidst the common grief.
Friday, Saturday, I can’t quite remember :
storms in the morning, the customary vacuum.
Therein Love discovers me nude, his eye my
door, and kicks me when I’m
down. I don’t blame God. I
do blame you who keep on circulating slander.
As if you all deserve my candor.
trouble sought unyet
No one goes by
fuller’s fields no more : so
was it fables or the
ephod or that
primal sin or what, that
brought us to captivities of
common moral cowardice?
Dunno. Greed and sloth and
sleep are killers : every
kind light’s spent. So
how will I call down the
river, wear the laurel, ever
learn my poor and bare
Philosophy again? No one goes by
fuller’s fields : you’ll carry few
companions through that viaduct but
o my gentle spirit, don’t lose vision
on account of their bonehead misprision.
good old social death
Light’s poverties slice up the
days in which we’ve
come to dwell (oh well), their
burning horns deep virtue’s
moments dressing all we tried :
down by the green-wood side. Our
rivers, hills wear
flowerettes, and earth coughs up
truffles, I guess? So as she is a
sun of women, her eyes’ rays dis—
tinguish time. Oh
social death : hello. Her
acts and thoughts and
works of love in me can
not abide. Down by the
green-wood side.
sonnet : the codes
Your heartbeat came to me across the storm,
whose vast internal distance wakes us now
from dreams of all that could have been, or how
our joys might take one day (it seemed) their form.
But life did not endure so long to see
your eyes’ light spent up by their final years,
or what you’d look like old: indeed your fears
stole all these things from you, from you and me.
Love suffer me to speak your holy ways,
which parted us down these diverging roads,
for I, thought I did waste my former days,
have nonetheless not died to Spirit’s goads,
nor yet forgotten all that time decays:
through which, today, God speaks at last the codes.