Poetry
Meet
me two years earlier in the street. Omega Street. I’ll try to be there,
to be perfectly present, to get the eyes right. And the rest: the arms and
breasts and mouth, the squalid vowels. May they be gathered like frail fruits
of summer, terse and woundless.
It’s just the early, the earliness of everything . . . it won’t
amaze me. Precocity of the wrong word falling, bright-blind, the bottom.
Bright-early fever of distance. When it hits. If the early, the ago-ness
of the error—doesn’t late me. I will be there, will be accurately
other, as right must be. We will agree the street looks better, unbelated.
As constellations speak scale to the molecules.
Untitled
Do not think, beloved, that names greet the known, that needs
sheet the night with a plangent sort of greening. It would be more than
all we believed if our best skies kept the birds out, and the stars’
malignant math shed its incessant drop, divide. Why flawed flat tears, why
this crepuscular sighing? Why weirds which plant the palm up, which flack
the step? When I am more a man than a motion, it will be icer, it will be
my, I shall be factored as a statue and twice as stone. But the mutinous
falter must flail its flagrant weather, the dry ash wind that sifts the
why, and the which, and the gone.