Monday, November 17, 2008

Short poems or fragments culled from past years

Every floweret of ice fuses the morning.
The traffic slips through. It is unheard
virginal song only. The gathered intimacy
of frosted miles that sung the night
is now revealed a little while.


The day was a gasp and done. To dark.
The day was an eyelid pried slowly back
and the orb held stark for no memorable pace

before being closed quick with
no hark or recognition
of another beholder.

On the skyline of the day's eye whites,
coal conifers never once went green.


Why the field’s rabbit has for a tail
a cotton swab, like a small snowball,
is not perhaps a why the evolutionist would court
in his thesis on the growth of lagomorphs.

“Perhaps it’s a kind of fluff appendix:
its use not obvious or apparent
as the teeth or feet or ears…O blast it,
a mystery for the diary!” which would be
the end of the tedious enquiry.


Cruel to be kind – in a sense true, to wit?
Cruelty is cruel because, says the sweet lip,
you must ride kindness with a whip
in order to be cruel, propagate it.


There are rushing voices come fresh from the hill
tree-clad, up to the redwoods and firs that crown
the top, where one can wait and draw in
the distillations of the din, and so
hear them right - from the flats and beyond below
flecked so one may see their far expanse
with the last of the snow. What is worst has skunked the air:
precept hearsay, taken to be rock, that the breaking
of the perfect aim is perfect.


When he was no longer an infant in her lap,
but then lay there with faltered arm and rent hand,
expired as morning, was Christ ever
so inexhaustibly his mother’s?

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