4.
A form as poetry is a losing proposition.
A precious loss the charged wind-broken cornhusks remember.
I sleep on my stomach copulate earth with memory.
Ghosts pierced with becoming twitching through a film played backwards.
The sun comes to meet you, facing the earth I say so.
In the little dirt of the wide ground I think this way.
That I loved an image of you first that made you appear.
Learned to watch passionately your driving your fussing your.
My prophetic hots and you leave me in the dusty dusk.
A tiny man some corn born from the displaced air of you.
A younger shadow waits always for your love to return.
Of woman I am still woman I die at every breath.
But the night-ache of words my own skin pierces me awake.
5. (Winter Solstice)
Line of longest night and shortest day at the end you breathe.
Day gasping from long night, light of articulate silence.
Say what it all meant in that darkness, so long unspoken.
The clatter of trees and exploding peat-moss, let my days speak.
Let the lightless wisdom of rocks like mad owls kindle me.
Permanent night in its communicative lapse, hello!
Slip into me through sun through eyebreath to know you tomorrow.
Undo reason with your backwards appearance, o balance.
Send the obvious and a trance pulled from shiny bright things.
Bring over the golden cup and the night it casts in me.
O cup full of night, bless my bodily tent, this out-post.
Singe the hair of my soles that I may heed where to walk forth.
Burn the hair off my palms that I may touch the naked night.
Opened, like a good doctor begging forgiveness, I’ll touch.
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