some more old hurricane music from Grassblade Light:


Limping, climbing like a Lazarus
from the well of amor, you wave goodby.
Stigmatized and astigmatic, she.
Passing beyond alarums, carnivals

in the distance, Mardi Gras
in the bent mirror, marvelous,
far-off now, larmes
des choses

your worn shoes.
Hand waves.

A valentine arrives from prison:
a feather; a blue iris
enveloped in glass;
a tiny lead pellet. Anon.

The thickness of the lens slows light:
ask Lena how it's done, Einstein.
Absolute zero, swimming, sun.
Blackstone here – was all for nought.

Like an arrow like a grain of sand
through your heart, you carry it
and live (livid, limpid, lit,
littoral, ghost). Like a wave

in your hand, the eye turns inward,
a wave diving into itself; and a gnomon
recedes toward noon, toward
everyone. You keep your word.


Astigmatism of a reading Mary
reddening, in green – a Magdalen's
uncontrollable waving, here anointing
knighthood's sword herself-to-be.

A black twig shaken by the early wind.
You hear the sound rustling
in the tumbling sky-tumulus
to come a two-man canoe wounded

in the womb tum-tum she comes
– so you heft her like a harlot's
chaplet of quintuplets' fifty-
two year-old foals – flagrant sums,

fulgent, horsing across Mongolia
– down tomorrow's lanes.
Only thin lines –
until angels in a J cry gloria.

Toward noon in Miami –
when eye, reflection, shadow
merge in heisted iceberg. Slow
light - seeping, sleeping. We.

Solid, airy teatime, Alice!
Parallelogrammar's cookies two-
in-wonder! I – whew!
Mad – limey – delicious!

Think you? Yes!
Thanks be! And here's More
come from an alcove to borrow
your precipice – this time on ice –


Her eye can wave good boy in fingerpoint
so straighten up, Sun of No One, soon –
her father's very weathery (monsoon
ready or not). Ash-wedded Lent

was Poe – spent like a moth
rolling murky balls in Baltimore.
His silver adversary swore
to ratify his vein, his troth, forsooth –

of the elect, and ineluctable. Inedible,
for money. Mammy's eyes he was.
Iced blue. J-crosted, crust-fried
satin western chicken butt, indelible.

A pencil on an island
in the shade.
Well-mud –
crucified, battered, solid

sand. Spidered through a skull
of mouldered glass – your
basement story – sour, sure –
ours, bare. Pulled off the hull.

A blarnicle. By friction.
Heavy work of art, held high
by doom – by mordant glue.
Mortal dew. Suction

cup of tiny tears, for hours and hours
dropping slow – less balm than woe.
That's gravity for you! That gravity for you.
That grave. That you. Yours. Her.


There's a Mardi Gras in the distance, Maggie –
let's go. Wave goodby now, honeychile.
Goodby now, land. Goodby, lamb. Girl,
I'm empty-handed now. Goodby.

A grain of sand in your throat
or dregs in the tea, some crumbs –
and you come up for air all thumbs
and stuttering - a heavy Joseph coat

over your shoulders – sopping wet.
Doubled-over, the bend's heartburn
stings your eyes – mustard bean
pole-vaulted chicken crutch-in-a-net or

weightlifting waiter-for-life –
how can I explain
a level plain?
Noon light – a cautious knife's

blackout. Ore, blue, rampant, lion
down – moniker black, milk
Levite sky, with Moloch,
kneaded, whining
warped, in chain

or Bluejay (fletched at cardinal point).
He shakes his head – yells –
seven heavens, seventeen hells
debouch – with camel, embonpoint.

Benighted with stars and stripped
for tussles with an angel, he –
he pencils in – see?
See! Another dantesque Danish whip.


No comments: