A Painting

I told her once that I had a poetic ambition,

that one day I would write a still-life.

Each rind-tough pore of the orange,

the texture of the skull where eyelids would be,

the entrancing bulb of an opening flower…

coarse woodgrain on the table tells the story of rain

that did not fall one summer, the flower

is given to a woman taken before July by typhoid,

the skull is my own. There are no defects in the orange,

but I starved. I never learned to like the taste of citrus.

Rinne

After I die and am reborn anew-

Let me be a serpent with deadly lips,

A hatchling hawk that breathes through three slow days,

Or a clam tossed by waves upon dry land.

Make an inchworm, but never this again.

A Feather

Though you can be displeased with conclusions,
I urge you to accept wind that scours,
Crumbling stones, sand that digs until it blinds:

If, by chance, desolation is hated-
Noble friends, do not believe that my hands

Built this desert, nor that it will disappear;

If what has been shown is not beautiful,

I will give you trees on cold spring mornings

Blowing dry flame as kisses on the boughs-

Wrens die underneath the claws of housecats.

I become tall in dark, ruined landscapes.

An Echo

I have come to this peak to speak in anger.

Far above the land, a man may earn the attention of gods.

If I wished to simplify my grievance,

I suppose the universe was the beginning-

I cannibalize a few stars and make my blood,

I paraphrase a little.

I am disgusted by variance because it imitates the impossible:

it is a lie, wearing a face bold like the invaders that come over the sea

and leave shepherds to tend hilly stretches of rock for ten thousand dawns.

I despise this world for reasons that are mostly petty.

My rage consumes those around me but still

is almost nothing; oaks fall on windy days and on their leaves

the truth is inscribed, but the interpretation is lost

or else has been intentionally demolished.

Where then in this rubble dwells mighty works, or the fabled King of kings?

Where in these poisoned rivers are the Naiads splashing?

Nothing is fit for carrion here in the shadow of the mountain,

but do not worry your brave and circling heads, you vultures,

soon enough a meal can be made of Narcissus.

The Black Sea

The god seen when steel finishes a life,

The weaving threads that form a tapestry,

The woman starving on a desert isle;

The poet dies amid barbarians.

Threshing

Move your hands. Dry your eyes. You have earned pain.

You think that reapers spare a pretty face

Or care that grain did not fulfill its dreams?

Perfume from a Dress

The irretrievable always compels.

Paintbrushes transform life to memory;

Memories hang on cold museum walls.

The walls persist for archaeologists-

The gods of sand long ago claimed the rest.

Dust and time will soon dominate the earth.

Kiss me on these bones of ancient cities,

Kiss me now near this new moon, immortal,

Kiss me for hatred, or to frustrate doom.

Your beauty cannot be borne, even in darkness.

Dispel this madness, blindfold me with lust. Kiss me.