In Time --

kindness, there, it

is sure --

we have ourselves

to blame -- the eye

sees us, coalesces, bringing

into being

a warming fire -- we

are the old bones

by the riverside searching

out lullabies once forgotten now sung

as canons, villanelles, or

submerged sonatinas --

you, with the black mane streaming

in the wind, counting

backwards,

seeking union

you have at your disposal

an arsenal of

untuned instruments, strings

about to break, valves oiled, the

conductor's baton

stilled for a moment -- would

you stand on this beach, here, alone,

waiting for me

to emerge

from the foam? --

*

fundamental forms –

here, the dangerous, inchoate unions

hunting us down for directions

on a littered highway -- how do we

stand to test our mettle with

a slick night of impoverished intent? -- Who

is the Master of this Situation?

Are we bleeding from too many portholes? -- Do

we succumb

beneath our grinding Clock, ready

for explosions but wary of an inert despair

unsettled? -- These

dwarfed occasions of a sullen tribe

left to fend for its own

in a circular world hurl reason to the sea

and claim

victims for the vanquished, desert-death

for a compliant desecration of Sense -- We

hammer out Justice, we

hammer out the love

between our brothers and our sisters but are unheard

beneath the L-Trains

and our cultured Poverty -- Why

do we

make

angels in the snow? -- they

will surely freeze here in an unclaimed Winter

suited

to whisky and barstools . . . I

cannot blink, my

eye is blinded

by the sawdust thrown at our feet

in the sculptor's Studio, there

where glacial forms

emerge as from a day's inebriation

awakening to light

and Purpose . . .

*

composed –

Schumann suffered under vision's brow

he knew not what to do

an iron flute and damask skin

all blistered in the Sun -- why

does the piano sound so Loud? Is

it the coming of the Lord?

What can it be when you no longer hear

the octaves in your Head?

unknowledgeable

these templates, here, that shatter upon impact amaze us with their hard looks

and sheltered oaths never knowing what to be afraid of and what to conquer

in this, our humble-home – Indians walking the trail of tears hint to us how to survive

in these perilous times – We must conserve our Energy, partition out our inner strength

for a time when it will be needed – We must

guard ourselves quietly in Caves awaiting the Word to release us into the Night; -- it

is there We will Erupt with stubborn Prayers and hearty Incantations, our Spirits revived for the

fight – days go by, receding into yesterday’s arrival

and We know it must be done, it must

be Structured in our unfed Irony the sure Sense of a pure Sign –

Unheard Of --

She stood, tall, unwept,

hard-shouldered, almost

Iron; her

head in the Clouds,

clay feet

stuck in the Mud -- She

could hear

the distant Octaves

coming Near, bathing

her with

Gothic chimes

and Church Bells -- she

the celibate Sister

Strung on the Skies, eyes

frozen

in shock, the

Earth

shuddering all Around -- She,

then,

unnerved and Shivering,

hoists

her knees up to her Chest

warming

with Springtime

and

the Gathering of Souls . . .

*