the valley of my ears, they follow words
whispered in dreams. And only for this do
I keep faith in the alchemy of rays.
They will return when ice breaks in the river,
when my mind sinks in the mud of May’s
tadpole-like embryo, flock to deliver
their paeans over my salt and pepper hair
as I rise from the shadow of their wings,
my thoughts entangled in a spider’s lair,
groping to overhear a bell that rings.
Similar Posts
In Memory of Maryann Mercurio
how the seasons multiplied, and smotheredyour family’s final holdouts, hilltops snowyin the blue-lit backdropp behind your mother’sblazing hair, her slouched and aching shouldersat rest now at the ending of her story,how the sunshine trickled down, the bouldermoved away, the flowers whispered ‘glory.’
(for Kasia)
surrounded by abundant store and riches,surrounded by elaborate head-dresses,water-heavy pearls and silken hose.I want you in the dark, holding a rose,among bronzes, candlesticks and vases,vases from which a balmy steam arisesinto a Great Dane’s dilating nose.Rembrandt, doubtless, must have felt this waywhen painting Saskia in a velvet gownas she approached her death before his sight—as…
Do not shed tears for the drowned boys
Free from their fathers’ stupidity,their wings bear the Trojan horseto the ruins of antiquityand to the altruistic Norse.Weep rather for the fair-haired boysand for the blue and green-eyed girls,your grandsons and your great granddaughterswith tiny fingers in yellow curls?There will be no baptismal waters,only fire drowning out their worlds.
“The dead came back from Jerusalem,
—Carl Jung, Seven Sermons to the Dead, Sermon I,1916Beneath a leaden sky:street merchants peddling wares,old harlots exposing breasts,grimaces and stares,rats, flies and other pests.The sun somewhere on high,its gold not of this earth,trees, stones and Dead Sea salt,a fire in an open hearth,a prayer said to a fault.So they returned, the glowwithin themselves in streams,the…
No, this is not a station in the metro,
Ezra Pound now sits inside of it,his beard a burning bush of grief made new.Gazing at the moon, and looking retro,the better craftsman grins to bars, and sees anight of stars implode, his touched eyes litand posed for labour. If not he, then whowill scribble truth into a timeless croon?Twenty-five days will pass before the…
Three pamphlets in which he spared none
Rats in a stable are not horses.(How well he knew their beady eyes,steaming sewers and twisted knives!)The pamphlets are medals on his chest,pearls of truth upon his canon,while the gnawed brown beams of Europecrumble in the metro slumsand France relents once more, and burns.