i've never seen such
astounding things
a discovery made
on a passage within

i recall sleeping
in celestial cots
made up of cygnus,
pavo,
the enticing lot

green velvet curtains drawn
block out the sun
although the windows are no more than
one
surrounded
by ivies, scripture
and platinum-tipped
pens
the era of thought
all within my
mind...

i awaken from slumber to quite different sights

the very same forces that prevail in this place,
the forces above
alluding, brooding

the thief comes too smug,
wind thrashes the sails
a cynical offering,
all grief to repent,
the season of starving,
the season of lent

isn't it odd how the winds never billow?
over the strangest utopian lands
the islands of women with no trace of men
the archipelagos of shellfish on land
and that one place due north...
beyond arctic bird coves
where wisps of the sky
grace plat-inum snow

the things that you see when it's dark on the ocean
four sailors drunken on laughter and autumn-***
down though the seabed
the lowest of shores
the music through rafters,
flutes clamor and roar...

torn and burdened is the world,
but brokenness never equated unworth
the land once which was
trodden,
the seas overcame
i nod off to sleep
just to shake off the pain
the forces come crashing,
formed over the bluff
indifferently shouting,
unrighteously tough

here from my balcony
on french-spanish estate
once indifferent forces,
concluding in rain.

un breloque,
a novel,
un tonique moitié plein

sweet chicory; wild,
a japanese maple

a lectern, a candle, a pendant;
lent
waves bring in water that melts the cement

holy

holy a lordy sing me poormans-hymn
nothing is true when nothing is not
to is is to be is to know now,
you see?

holy

who what is and who is what's not
this is truth spread out on loaf
this is riddle to a rhyming oaf
never simply,

holy

from highest heaven to lowest vale
carry the sound like an orchestra,
a procession of violent brasses rising…

You can find me in the fields,
catching water bugs,
and small red beetles.
You will find me in the grass,
sifting through all of the things I have left.

sifting through dollops of honey
and gin
sifting through well-rusted lockets and tins
o’er high hills comes sweet-smelling winds
carrying over pollens from yore,
drifting from to city to city once more...

twenty years later i sit in my yard
with my cats and my children in the heart of new york,
new york
a faint, yet audible buzzing awakes me from my nap,
and as i wake i see a flow‘r on my lap.
how could this be?
how could this happen?
i’m surrounded by non-ornamental hedge plants!

i look to the sky and see a faint glisten,
for i've seen it now as i’ve seen it before
i breathe in the sweet smell of my youth from yore,
drifting from city to city once more.