1657

1657
What is a sparrow’s
Wing span of hours?
Did she mind the stir
Of cicadas stealing silence?
She’d light at my foot
With sure embassy:
I know you, sir,
Angling a small reacquainting eye:
Family’s hungry.
I haven’t seen her it’s been days,
Days gone by.

1643

1643
Skate folded wing
By feather bend
Gravity’s rail
That bounds the earth to every partner
Past woven scale.
Move to live
Is law unteneted,
And your flight
Small fellow is your breath
But my beauty.

1626

1626
My eyes are more real than sight,
For all is the fear and nothing is
A thousand suns at night;
Did they all blink out
Were confirmation
Not of voided heaven,
But a heart of darkness
That worlds its own perceiving.
Upon this tissue
Is my palace built,
Within a shore without a sea.

1456
Notion me a love
That like a moon I seem moving
Though her motion is the matter.
Nature’s sleights are sound
As the roundness of orbits,
Yet emotions at angles feint
To course the ego’s makeshift
Map of consequence.
Conjure me the spherical
Strangeness of a well round which
Imagined paths magnetic go,
And where as imagined,
Not hocussed they may cross there we be,
One, one, a seeming truth
Imagined too.

903
The seashell as condign artifact
Of a program fault:
You’d bent over its abstract
Organic
As your spine’s curve
Whose calcited nodes were conversation once
To my weary head in a wooden room–
Now shell once scarfed in sand
And shadowless day
Is specimened in glass,
Imperfection’s calculus unsubdued.

893
In the shelter’s
Alcoholic pigeon’s draggled feather’s
Jaunty bobbling–
In this post-meridian backlit sprig’s
Counterswing to his parading march–
Is spring’s flag, at once
Instant’s hinge and swinging season’s arc.

867
Oh longing– it is as breath drawn–
What did the tree dark speak of dusk–
One strains to hear, not listening
To shadows that may be giant–
Such a pulse! Is it hidden there?
The branches vein of paler night?
It must be you so far away.

865

In the morning glass of trains’
Affinity for reflection
Is nature alike in held and holder–
The narration’s stuff for author and actor;
Mirror’s flash of sun for the other.

859
Too mortal for this frame,
That boded sky so lightly,
And busied once this winter tree
With all-present contention–
Now–pristine feather–
Is it warranted to say,
After this death, no other.

855 (Gen. U.S. Grant)
The haze at sundown slant
Break that shape anew;
The dryness and the dust–
The fucking dust in every glass–
And hell’s term intercalated thus
With such fine grains
As richly inutile as my handed means
To render death its gravity.