Mercury in Retrograde
Running water/wasp at screen/ its legs
Prick the metal not burning/ nothing burns
Like silence/ except for the sound
Of betrayal./ It is a cry
all its own
And stands the creature in its own light, declaring
That Consciousness is the knowledge of shame.
Aquinas’ unmoved mover stands
braced by the chaos of movement. Only weather is as cruel.
Amidst this we formed language,
etching out symbols. Phonemes granted faces
unions that beget new sounds through which to paint by.
Man began to lie upon switching from picture to sound
Pictures intrinsically linked to actuality- irresponsible sound
habituated to be/ random/ and therefore unreliable/
Capable of betrayal/. One cannot trust a sound
that has no face/
to bind it.
Gray Along the River
I see you along the ridge and
you shift—like geese in the rain.
To know you is to question substance
highways and sleep
There are places that even the birds cannot
navigate. On these the sea leaves its
mark, angled and strong. Light
is really a question—along with dance
and the language of faces. Ask me—
do I love you now?
If not, when?
Was there ever a time we sprang lightly
loosed from the ground as if on wire?
I did not know you then, when I hung you
from the branches. Feared you
like a slow fire.
Anchor or ballast—both shapes
promote balance
but one of them threatens
the sky
A Dialogue with the Wind
As if on command- the wind begins an oration
on corn husks and water, the feel of rough bark
and why heartbeats conflict with its own rhythm.
Again, I am struck by the simplicity
of its call—don’t leave me! Not yet—
I have another word for you…
I’ve not moved a moment and it’s digging,
telling me where morning began
while it tugs on the grass, a few strands
whisked into a dust devil.
That must be how it describes confusion
or maybe significant thought.
Constantinople, it continues, was only beautiful for a moment.
Before the cobblestones came.
Hence it became an attraction for mad children, dog shit
and a never-ending tirade of furtive men sipping tea
and plotting how to take over
the world.
I tired of them
so I blew in Rome.
That’s preposterous—I say—
But the devil moves on, now
carrying leaves. It’s the color of ash after
A heavy rain- And another thing—it says hastily,
I am not the only one who thinks this—I heard it
from the weathervane. It was he who said
That you would love me best. So I’m singing to you now…
Its voice held all of the violins in heaven
And moved with the force of a train.
I am afraid of You, I said.
It held me tighter, saying—Never.
You are afraid of my sister—she is always trying
To draw you away. If you didn’t have me to hold you down
you might drift off—no, I might never see you
again. She is always taking my balloons.
I offered it the handful of leaves I had been
playing with, and it took them
with delight, now whirling around me like a phonograph,
staggering as a small child does
before falling.
