Archives for posts with tag: from Kinetic | 2007 | Shearsman Books

God was saying something to me
but I nodded off and when I woke
all I saw was the pale fume
from the spout of the kettle.

We walked by the ocean
white spray and blue waves like out of a Hokusai,
did you know that this species of dragonfly
has been on the earth for three hundred thousand years
longer than us?

So they tore down the buildings I loved,
and they put up buildings I hated.
It’s okay you said. It’s okay.
You just have to let go.

It only takes the piano
five notes out from silence
to break your heart.
Sometimes I think that’s because
you know the silence is always waiting,
sometimes I think
the music knows it, too.

I told you I loved you.
You told me how, once,
when you were young,
your mother cried and cried
when you went missing
lost in a field
chasing after dragonflies.

We made love. I felt at once tender and affectless.
We sighed and were no one, for a little while at least.

They were helicoptering people up off the embassy roof.
Reizan, reizan, reizan… The whir of the rotors,
the whump and cackle of the blades as they went airborne,
the passing quietness of the sky once they had gone…

I know, I said I would love you forever.
I wasn’t lying. I meant it at the time. I just didn’t realise

forever doesn’t last that long.

Nick used tungsten film the colours glowed in the darkened room
Such light as there was was full and lush
as if it was going out of style
and the greens seemed to bleed and wash over themselves
while Nick snapped away we talked
listened to the Czars and sometimes we were quiet
I thought of you
a fir forest at the bottom of the ocean, trees
frozen with the birdsong still in them.

Later the clouds brought snow,
and I thought of the cold air blown in a wind from Siberia.

Yes, they were graves, so what?

And I thought it was a long way into my heart
but when you came to leave
I found it was just a short walk, after all.

You disposed of me quickly, efficiently, one neat phonecall.
That’s cool. I guess you had your reasons.

Did you know, Yesenin wrote his last poem in his own blood?

That’s not my style. I’m more Zen, more detached.

I’ll never write a last poem.