Last night it flew hundreds of circles around a glass bulb
and a flame wire.
The wings are a soft gold; it is the gold of illuminated
initials in manuscripts of the medieval monks.
Similar Posts
HOKUSAI’S portrait of himself
And his arms and legs. The only facesAre a river and a mountainAnd two laughing farmers.The smile of Hokusaiis under his hat.
The young child, Christ, is straight and wise
Found under running water for all childrenAnd found under shadows thrown on still watersBy tall trees looking downward, old and gnarled.Found to the eyes of children alone, untold,Singing a low song in the loneliness.And the young child, Christ, goes on askingAnd the old men answer nothing and only know loveFor the young child. Christ, straight…
You came from the Aztecs
Tawnier than a sunsetSaying good-by to an even river.And I said, you remember,Those fore-arms of yoursWere finer than bronzesAnd you were glad.It was tearsAnd a path westand a home-goingwhen I askedWhy there were scars of worn goldWhere a man’s ring was fixed onceOn your third finger.And I call youTo come backbefore the days are longer.
Days of the dead men, Danny.
remembering heart.Jaurès, a great love-heart of France,a slug of lead in the red valves.Kitchener of Khartoum, tall, cold, proud,a shark’s mouthful.Franz Josef, the old man of forty hauntedkingdoms, in a tomb with the Hapsburgfathers, moths eating a green uniformto tatters, worms taking all and leavingonly bones and gold buttons, bones andiron crosses.Jack London, Jim Riley,…
Legs hold a torso away from the earth.
Powers of bone and cord raise a belly and lungsOut of ooze and over the loam where eyes look and ears hearAnd arms have a chance to hammer and shoot and run motors.You make usProud of our legs, old man.And you left off the head here,The skull found always crumbling neighbor of the ankles.
SOMEWHERE you and I remember we came.
Ladders of dust and mud and our hair snarled.Rags of drenching mist and our hands clawing, climbing.You and I that snickered in the crotches and corners, in the gab of our first talking.Red dabs of dawn summer mornings and the rain sliding off our shoulders summer afternoons.Was it you and I yelled songs and songs…