Sunday, July 09, 2006



She has something in a dream.
What little girls do behind the property
without the property
is a mystery the sky has
weather we aren't meant to know
or have gold it matters little.
Trains bear women gleam like rails
of deciduous metals, intimacy
& cuverture
tramp dreamers and the trains widen into meadows
while she rides her ring
to work, giddy
uirga, supple one.
The mercury in an ant farm,
pus in the spine.
She works in a uterine whisper,
nothing else in her
The matter is closed.


Call thrice under the shifting face in the bare white trees,
Persephone's breasts so far apart to show the memory spent
there. Herzschlagentext. But love is a solvent.

The Pergamonmuseum like her dreams,
some are missing hands, some everything but their faces,
others are only their veils.

Handing the lady little origami islands to earth about her
in the dark,
about face, the face in dream, surrounded by the twentieth century,
a mouthful of remorse I eat rather than spit out
before I drink from your lap again.

Convivio forgotten into forgiveness, & so easier to bear,
to bare the face, it hovers in the white trees.
Thrice yesterday, a potion,
your name flowers by the shifting face.


Ter Yoorup! whose refinements in her dark silences
can even be Persephone

They want you for a face pulled from the river
may you be naked in death, beryl, kickshaw bulwarks

To suck the water from her diamonds,
when she moves out of life to stay her
glance in the stone
palpable as rain.

But her warm young move into their own natures,
mind the conjurers.

Yesterday sleight the wet sun, smelled like spring we won't know again
till April midnight what wanton light is.
She comes out then.

Little things breed in the volupt
Is not below but outside, Persephone,
milky sobriety, field glass.

There is a queen even a woman below
else everything would be lost cold light none can be naked in?
Sorrow is a power,
the more I see the less of me, & the seen things

& outside the day in any light not hers.



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