We did not ask for this form, why do my arms, my neck, my wrists | not answer to the air or to my call, hounds | no | hunting

Why does the breeze fall at this moment | introducing a hush into my blood, and why do my wrists | turn uneasily in their beds like young princes

And the skull on the neck, the ache in the shoulders, I did not | ask for this thought | why should it come with its dew and white camellias | coal, ash | Japan?

With no tower, and with no murderers

The neck lying next to the skull, then next | to the pomegranate tree | then next | to your mouth, and your mouth | has been building up towards a kiss | for hours, doesn’t the storm | want a city? | the prettier | to look…

Such a ruckus! Delivery of a leaden beer | in mighty barrels | The ballerinas all bears | such a thud and racket | such bruit | of bad-tempered giants | trying to pick up a thimble | their fingers like canoes | their thumbs like sofas | and how | rhetoric is altered by lightning | enriched a moment, then | abandoned for eternity, so much | for my skull | and its glabrous contents | the shrill mew of its mice | the sweet tune | the impoverished seamstress sings | sewing tiny orange | fleurs-de-lis on a bodice | so much | for so little | so much, so much…

With no time, and the murderers | With no day | but a sun

The hounds of my senses | do not come when I call | They choose their own prey | Sometimes, I am the prey

The bowmen of my eyes | do not fire when I call | They choose their own target | the luscious bull | of what life has to offer | We did not ask for this form | It doesn’t want | the clothes we use | to dress it up | But none of the foregoing | matters, anyway, because now | is the moment | the sea enters | and all must acknowledge | the power of the sea

Will I ever | know this | modesty again | this simple | “being involved”?

A night, I mean, truly | opened on one side | by your touch | and another side opened | by your letting go

For iotas, for crumbs

The sea patrolling outside our room, looking for the way in | the sea demanding its toll of honey

We

must make it | through to the place | bees go in autumn

That’s it

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem: September, 2013)