At the furthermost reach of the sea

picture hooks left strandedin the unsoiled squares where paintings were,and something reminding usthis is like all other moving days;finding the dirty ends of someone else’s life,hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,and burned-out matches in the corner;things not preserved, yet never swept awaylike fragments of disturbing dreamswe stumble on all day. . .in ordering…

Sick of the self,the self-seducing self-with its games, its fears,its misty memories, and its prix fixe menuof seductions (so familiareven to the seducer)that he grows sickof looking at himselfin the mirrored ceilingbefore he takes the plunge into this newdistraction from the selfwhich in fact leads backto self.Self-the prison.Love-the answer and the door.And yet the self…

the eagerstudents gather.They ask mewhat you needto be a writer& I, feeling flippant,jaunty(becauseI am wearingan 18th centurydress& thinkmyself in loveagain),answer:‘Mazel,dete rmination,talent, & truegrit.’I evenbelieve it-lookingas I dolike anadvertisementfor easysuccess-designer dress,sly smileon my lips& silver bootsfromOz.Supposethey saw memy eyesswollenlike sponges,my handshakingwith betrayal,my fearrampantin the dark?Suppose they sawthe fearof neverwriting,the fearof beingalone,the money fear,the fear fear,the fearof…

My deathlooks exactly like me.She lives to my left,at exactly an arm’s length.She has my face, hair, hands;she agesas I grow older.Sometimes, at night,my death awakens meor else appears in dreamsI did not write.Sometimes a sudden windblows from nowhere,& I look left& see my death.Alive, I writewith my right hand only.When I am dead,I shall…

& the moon an orange slicetangy to the teethof lovers who lieunder it,sucking it.Somewhere there are palm trees;somewhere the seabluely gathers itself up& lets itself fall againinto green;somewhere the spanglesof light on the oceandazzle the eyes;but here in the midnight city,the black ship of nighthas dockedfor a long, dark stay,& even the citrus moonwith its…

a flaming halo-yellow, red, blueor pure white,taking its colorfrom the stateof the soul.Cynics scoff.Scientists make graphsto refute it.Editorial writers,journalists, & evencertain poets,claim it is only mirage,trumped-up finery,illusory feathers,spiritual shenanigans,humbug.But in dreamswe see it,& sometimes even waking.If the spirit is a brideabout to be married to God,this is her veil.Do I believe it?Do I squint& regard…