YAM YAD

MAY DAY

Until the day they cut the maple

off the grave for fear of the power-lines,

after all we’ve done so as not to remember,

yew by the labyrinth axe in the barn-door

aesthetic issues for some hapless inheritor,

bodies crawling from the pleasant backyard

perennial desire old as wood;

touch anything and you’re done for,

space shows you its vertical axis,

open the door then up and up

starlings kettle in thermal updraft

in triangular proportion to desire

and the need to understand, come stand on my feet:

thirty-six birds, I wonder if we have

thirty six teeth, as Luria seems to suggest

carve through a single word

and if two people remember a third person

whose name is breath, would the greater mind

be less unique, a thousand edges of sweet spring air

flocking crystalline fragments fragrance

that turn the sky blue with incomplete sentences

that risk our clothes and petrified spelling:

how many fingers can go on in one touch,

all talk is mythology in a world of solid wood

words dance around the tree and carry off its root

when I talk like this it means I’m listening to you

clear and hardy images, alpine varieties, 

serrated leaves and hairy stems, we must already 

have travelled far, if we’re already in the habit

of having four arms, and sight goes where birds go

when you only have one eye, and the sun cavorts

in the beach-glass as if we knew each other on some distanter shore.

4/7

In the book I can remember the catalpas

the long legged woman from Tennessee, verso

page among the last 50, Eastern sky

aglow at evening and there she was

twisty catalpa holding its bean pods black knives

like someone walking almost silently

in the woods. I can remember it there–

soft tread on the dank leaves of mind–

suchness and the place it proposes.

Words birds news intrudes shapely with Time.

Bemused angels with no one’s time but their own.

4/5

Blue flowers in the snow under Linden House

blue-jay smacks against the window

let’s get to the bottom of this it says

evolving divergences proposition place;

what you see is the news, go ahead,

plant peppermint in the ash-heap,

that’s how we tell god what to think. See,

If you touch my hand you will be touched

in turn touched back, by the world, too.

Fly into the window. The gates from within.

homophonic trans. of Acts I:7/8 #upcomingeventsinApril

7. I pray you pose autos. Hoof human is to know my recrudity, circus whose old pater ethico in his idea exhaust ya. 

8. However, leaps his the Duna in April throne towards your house your Pneumatose isthmus, I is is the moiety map to place in the Jerusalem and in passing his Judaea and Samaria and unto escape atolls this gaze. 

3.29

Look through the window someone you know there.

Puss in Boots a cross on the ground

our unique object of continual want

poor alchemists waiting for Elias

when there’s nothing left and then it’s given;

greasy stone from the other side of all

Kabbalah before books the word in your mouth.

3.28 (2)

Sun is hidden but you can follow its heat

that much we know the rest from someone else:

quince you stole and never let you go.

This tree is gone but I’ve come back,

to green hills coronet from a broken window,

so much for metaphor I’m in love with

the old brick, no relief for a wandering

womb. There’s a rollercoaster in my chest.

Someone left these images and I have to

live them through. Poetry is the lost and found

the cat grips my head the door in your shoes.

3.28.16

Sunset behind the clouds leaves and

leaves here its saline sharp blue bridge

to the sea. Heaven sealed up and sealed

up in us, crystal gazing the town blue:

we’re back in Morocco, back where color

knows, blue of every door folded in your

whitest sheets. Hold your shadow’s breath

up the cool alleyways nothing to distract you.