oh, the most familiar face!
--and the rising
with no fall;

no

exhale

ah
how the chest swells
as at the first waft
of early coffee
demanding I drink.

(has anyone ever sighed and found herself shuddering?)

I grew ill
some day between first sip and now,
and that taste

--yours--

now, as much as remembered bliss,
for fear, has become no more
than imagined sickness

bowel and gut constrict--
I hold myself,
pretend not
as I'm greeted:

"Good morning!"

*please
keep that away from me.

you need a moment, sometimes,
a moment can be a series
of seconds that add up to forty winks;
a moment of quite, time away from
the clamor and the crowd and the hungry
away from the brightness, the lights
and the demanding, and the conversations
and questions, and queries and routine
just away from people to think a little perhaps
to drop into the quiet of oneself
a moment in the chair, elbow on the table –
could have shut the door, you know,
so the creak will wake, alert you, maybe;
could have had a fruit (did you?),
or could have moved the spare chair round
so any intruder would have to move it
which would have served as ample warning
and you could’ve said: “Oh, how dusty in here,
just cleaning up, nearly finished…”
but maybe you’ve your own devices and stratagems
whatever, we’d just say now, looking at you
the way Vermeer’s left you for us, dear girl asleep,
you sleeping, retired into this quiet, into this room
in your corner, elbow on the table,
you in the chair, leaning sideways
we’d say, seeing you:
*you need a moment, sometimes,
a moment of quiet, time away –
hey, good on you…

gentle girl
in checkered shawl
in Safonkovo,
the artist's village

charming girl
and of delicate smile
in your simple rustic clothes
like any other girl everywhere
with her dreams, her loves
flowering in time, coming of age
with nature's rhythms

girl of desires and wishes
and warmth and good heart
anonymous, unknown
and growing and marrying and begetting
and loving and nurturing and passing
in time past, another age
another clime

and this your lovely smile
that reaches us from your village
this the beauty of you
O girl in checkered shawl
in Safonkovo
the artist's village

this look of you, Venetsianov
sends from the distant past -
this
I breathe in like
I breathe the fresh air
on an early Spring morning,
O darling girl of Safonkovo

Go Giryeodo, painted by Kim Myeong-guk
maybe in 1650
radiating a story, still today
riding the donkey
trees behind
the mountain track treacherous
Go Giryeodo
mind clear and attentive to all that is
There is no mind here
that is obsessed by sin
and sharpened doctrines
like the ones on the other side of the world
Detached and collected
rides Giryeodo
There is no sense of destiny or ambition to reach Heaven
There is no Theology, no Thick Books that attract Thick Heads
Giryeodo rides
Donkey at its own pace
free, no encumbrance, no demands
there is no Book, there is no Text
there is no authority or Weight that fills
The mind of the rider Go Giryeodo, painted by Kim Myeong-guk
no perversions of religion and conversion
that fills the minds of those on the other side of the world
Fills them like the Devil fills their Books and Speeches
Gentle, uncaring,
no sense of timing
riding since 1650, perhaps before
riding perhaps into timeless-ness
Not caring for an end of time
go Giryeodo, painted by Kim Myeong-guk
riding the donkey
riding the donkey
trees behind
the mountain track treacherous

Sometimes, yearning
feels like such
a chore.

As if someone ordered,
"Go to work every day,
and think about me"

The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit.
Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale
face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide.  None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small  
crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there.
Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be.
That first bite.
The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion?
Put her before you. naked.

For the same reasons that I stay hungry
for dinner and tired for bed, I keep my
heart a little lonely for poetry; that way,
I can imagine your weathered hands against
my pale thighs as clinging starfish – my
fingernails, bleached cockleshells washed up
on the barely evening beach of your back.

Bargaining with yourself
lungs beating back and forth
like wary eyes
scared someone might see
and know you've lost it
gone so subtly that
not even you knew
(until this moment).
Not even you noticed
your anchor's been dragging for miles
But still, a bargain.
Self, I will act as though I'm sane
and in exchange
please illuminate me as to
what the hell has happened.
We'll shake on it.

(I am afraid neither side
will stay its promise)