a tribe of swans
flying forward forever in a
perfect V--
squawking against the wind,
with wings laughing
like little old ladies,
rhythmically & white
feathers falling to the
gentle earth...

black vultures the color
of 3 AM in a
pitiful wretched circle
fly over the
valley, worshipping
the dead and the bones
and the ashes.

life is a blood-red
rust-red roadmap
of cracked paper
that soaks up suffering
like soapy water
and burns up
slowly when set
on fire

On a plateau
        by the seashore
sits a naked goddess,

a dryad or a naiad--
       she laments a soft
song of mechanical

love. Bathing in the
        quiet night, the
light, the

diamond-bright
        stillness. She looks
at me with sad eyes.

On a conch-shell loveboat
        together we sail
through snaky canals

of the heart.
        Cool, lapping
water drips

from her long
        seaweed hair as she
sings for me--

we go beneath
        the sea &
look up at

intangible starfish
        that mirror
the stars of the

surface.

So now you've left me
nothing but quiet bones.

You have pulled out
my unreal teeth.

You have taken off
my unlaughable clothes.

I **** the bitter
night. I **** all its

kisses; they bring
me no joy. You have

trimmed my unabashed
hair, my unyielding

nails.
I am quiet bones.

There is a nativity scene in my backyard every morning.
I can look out the window and observe,
With tired eyes, the birth of Christ
And the treachery of Cain
And the flood of Noah
And the sacrifice of Abraham
And even Moses’ burning bush.

The sun rises above the forest every morning.
It smiles on the grass and makes it grow;
The dewdrops on the trampoline
Cast tiny rainbows on the black rubber surface;
A tiny autumn breeze sways the trees
And they dance with a mysterious genius
That man cannot know.

I can hear the music of the birds in the morning.
There are tiny red berries and honeysuckle flowers
On the trees at the edge of the woods;
There is no serpent, though,
And there is no Eve to pick them and eat them,
And there is no Adam, naked and ribless,
And there is certainly no angel swinging a flaming
Sword in my Garden of Eden.

Pick it up with your delicate fingers;
The tiny oval, purple and bruised,
And in it is contained a life, and cold juice.

Nurtured by the sun, surrounded by
Fresh air in a vineyard; now
Bathed in the sterile light

Of a public school cafeteria.
If grapes have a religion, I’m
Sure the sun is the Son of God

And wine tasters are the dogs of Hell.
If grapes could talk, would they mention
How ugly you look

As you raise grape after grape into your
Grape-colored mouth? I want to speak to the
Grapes; I want to know what they are
Knowing.

The leaves form a shade (a dead mobile)
Hanging over the heads
Of the pedestrians,
Who don’t even notice
That summer’s beauty has been
Stiffened; summer’s leaves
Are falling as if they were
Birds soaring too close to the sun
And so fall down in loneliness.
It is as if orchards are dying high up
In space; as if star orchards have
Lost their weight, and so fall resignedly
On the head of the earth. But
Something is holding all of this falling up,
Isn’t it?