staying upright
so the light can enter my eyes
from behind
time away again
massing weeds
the pleasure of clearing
a vibration
close and below
death despair
and a great rigor
dark towering cool
elm wood shade
filling my lungs in May
a long silence
held my breath
this morning
this morning
the sky fell into my chest
seeing through
the winter trees
an empty snow
day today
and nothing to say
I meet a wandering monk yesterday
here in the middle of Kentucky
he was crazy in love
and telling everyone
dog paws bringing earth
to my pillow again
rooting my dreams
I didn’t write yesterday (with pencil)
it was a lost day
hollow and conventional
crazy armed tree
impossibly long limbs
meandering
silence is the only rigour
that brightens
these words
October elm tree
glowing from the inside
born
once or twice a week
again
death will be
the vertical lines
in an aurora borealis
trying to tread
the boundary
its why late nineteenth century paintings
are so good
weak ghouls
they flee
so easily
mornings
the fresh darkness
at my kitchen table
silence sinks deep
stitching organs strong
my toes are cold
this Sunday morning
hot tea in hand
the clouds
are always moving
my persistence
I must be still
if the cream is to collect
in my head
this is exactly what I need
and yet I wish and dream
