This is an entire optic, entirely An Eye, sailing, on a sea of sunlight, To catch the Eternity that, Hourly, Drops like rain, from the heavenly birthright, All these ornaments, of an endless air, Clouds of corpse’d stars, newborn stars, galaxies, Fill the Temple, of the head, from the stair Of space, of such silentContinue reading “Sonnet V – A Lyric on The James Webb Space Telescope’s Regard”
If my bare heart shall be your blank, fire onIn words the wounds that’ve wound you up, let looseYour ammo’s shot (that being, your amors gone),On target that beats, e’en till the fuse diffuse, Shoot, here’s fair mark: that hearts hurt (on hearts) hound,Look, fair game, when the hart’s in the clearing,Beastly love pounces itsContinue reading “Sonnet IV: Love’s Game’s Gone”
I heard many cries. But I couldn’t a single person see. Though the cries were so close. Before I could ask about this, Dante stopped, and bent his ear East. Then we heard a sound, not groan but melody, as of a Japanese flute – piping from so very far away.
In aspen woods there is a sacred space,
Which by the Bones I think the Crow had roost,
And there I took my craft: needle, thread, and lace,
And sewed Love’s idol. But not Cupid I’produced,
This trough, or manger, was itself the grave…
We’d hid ourselves in the sagebrush. They covered the plain like silver hills. They covered our black-garbed bodies. Jesse James, and Frank James, and me myself. We were watching the road, and we’d been watching the road for some hours four. We were waiting for the Man we meant to rob.
I think the author a rather heart-broken Time Traveler, who intentionally scatters his/her verses among the timeline, as Orlando upon the Arden trees, with an object of wooing not a rosy Paramour, but rather, that rarest of all things, an Audience.
He held it tight in his pinchers, crawling homeward across sand, dragging the end along behind. He was making quite slow time, so I asked what he intended to do with his new treasure. He said he meant to decorate his shell nest with it and some half-rotted sea grape leaves.
An Amerikan Ghost Story – All Amerika is a haunted ground. Said that Miner man that sat alone in the corner of the open-air car. Why did he sit out there in the cold of the October night? His breath, steaming in lantern light, showed me he was there, told me he was talking. IContinue reading “The Phantom Train of Marshall Pass”
The people were everywhere slumped on the ground. I could bear it no longer. I stooped and asked one of the men – who was very plain and dull – what he’d done. He only sighed. I asked another, a woman – also unremarkable – and again I heard no word.