Regrets fly kites in your eyes.
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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.
They were calling certain styles of whiskers by the name of “lilacs.”
Of “mutton chops,” “galways,” “feather dusters.”Metaphors such as these sprang from their lips while other street criesSprang from sparrows finding scattered oats among interstices of the curb.Ah-hah these metaphors—and Ah-hah these boys—among the police they were knownAs the Dirty Dozen and their names took the front pages of newspapersAnd two of them croaked on the…
Momus is the name men give your face,
Finding a way mid mist on a shoreland,Where gray rocks let the salt water shatter sprayAgainst horizons purple, silent.Yes, Momus,Men have flung your face in bronzeTo gaze in gargoyle downward on a street-whirl of folk.They were artists did this, shaped your sad mouth,Gave you a tall forehead slanted with calm, broad wisdom;All your lips to…
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put out pointing fingers here,picked this crossway, put it on a map,set up their sawbucks, fixed their shotguns,found a hitching place for the pony express,made a hitching place for the iron horse,the one-eyed horse with the fire-spit head,found a homelike spot and said, ‘Make a home,’saw this corner with a mesh of rails, shuttlingpeople, shunting…
There are no handles upon a language
And mark it with signs for its remembrance.It is a river, this language,Once in a thousand yearsBreaking a new courseChanging its way to the ocean.It is mountain effluviaMoving to valleysAnd from nation to nationCrossing borders and mixing.Languages die like rivers.Words wrapped round your tongue todayAnd broken to shape of thoughtBetween your teeth and lips speakingNow…
WHY should I be wondering
I who cannot remember whether it was a dash of blueOr a whirr of red under your willow throat-Why do I wonder how you would look in humming-bird feathers?