"lolls" poems
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
4.3k
Walk with legs that do not buckle ,
not anymore.
Can you stand now ?
Can you stand on two feet , falling through the space between rest stops ,
pavements eating footsteps up , vibrations miss the point...
......that earth already has a floor !
Can you stand now?
Walk with legs that do not buckle.
With loving hands , i float a paper boat down the stream.
Folded from a sheet of thin lined a4 ,
covered in my frustration, in my self hate , in my wishful thinking of stories never come true , smothered in my silent sighs , etched with the tear stained wisdom soaked tale of hearts growing.
Melded together , tied up in past karma , future favors..... we grew ,
in a dance , letting go of hands then drifting , as if we were floating in space , spiraling far from each other , our minds a better solace then those around us.
Sometimes it would spill over , bubble into a brew around my feet , embarrass me with my heart all too feeling. A bad taste lolls on my tongue , from words i wish i had spoken , fear whispering things into my ears, noises of bad deeds imaginary.
I'm not supposed to tell you that someone helped heal me , much more than any others...
I'm supposed to have done it all myself.
But he stays
he stays, after seeing aspects i could barely show to myself they rung with such hollow heartfelt heartlessness.
Misguided identity fraud , is the name of this game.
I've offered plenty of times
"leave when you need to.... i know i can be too much"
shhh he says.
With loving hands , where all experience still sits engraved in skin,
i'll tell you a secret,
the boat never floats away.
But joins all the others , bunched up
on a strand of DNA.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
I've stayed up for you
In my mascara
Just in case.
Again.
As, more alcohol than man,
Your hands stumbling over the keys like your feet on the ground.
You tell me I'm beautiful, but it's obviously not enough.
Money is too tight to cross the water like I've done.
But there's just enough for the pub
With someone who's not dad or brother.
This pause is a hint for you to tell me it's not what I think it is.
Your head lolls.
Oblivious to mine whirring.
Eyes widening
I hold back x's
In the hope that you'll notice that
You've ****** up.
You were right all along
I deserve better, but don't want it.
I've sat here patiently
An era long enough to gestate
This hate as I fall for you
And ask you kindly what's going on.
Only to get a vague answer,
A drunken phonecall
And a hiccup.
Just tell me what to do here.
If you want me to,
I'll stay
And be yours.
But I can't hover at the bar
While you go up for another drink.
I need someone of my own, not to be owned by someone.
I've stayed up for you
In my mascara
That's running.
Again.
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 5:46 PM UTC
As skylarks departed
At rue in sorrow; --
Broke me half-hearted
From sever tears
And narrow --
Narrow, of my fears,
Which lolls
To the broken lily
That un-rolls
Her half-winged angels --
Wan and chilly,
To the pinions of the angels
Frore and chilly --
As skylarks departed
In tint of pearl;
Iris skies started
To sever the years
Of a little girl
That frolic wind swirl --
And lolls
To the broken lily
That un-rolls
Her half-winged angels --
Wan and chilly,
To the pinions of the angels
Frore and chilly --
As skylarks departed
In butterfly hue;
Spread far plumes parted
From severing peers,
With gossamer and dew
Drip upon me too.
And on it lolls
To the broken lily
That un-rolls
Her half-winged angels --
Wan and chilly,
To the pinions of the angels
Frore and chilly --
As skylarks departed,
Birds they cipher
Once were all parted
For sever cheers
They decipher
The stream of a sad lifer
That so lolls
To the broken lily
That un-rolls
Her half-winged angels --
Wan and chilly,
To the pinions of the angels
Frore and chilly --
When skylarks dis-hearted
Of a sussurous stream
Follow with rue darted
In my sever tears,
I've bled to cry and scream
As flown pass a dream.
And thus so lolls
To the broken lily
(As skylarks departed)
That un-rolls
(And broke me half-hearted)
Her half-winged angels --
Wan and chilly,
(From sever tears)
To the pinions of the angels
Frore and chilly --
(And shallow, of my fears)
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 11:22 AM UTC
Piled in corners
are things I've tried to be.
Study books build staircases,
art materials stack up in paint splashed bonfires,
a yoga mat lolls like a disembodied tongue
and the sewing machine crouches beetle like,
chews on thread
weaves a cocoon over itself.
Pictures line the walls.
I smile behind glass,
children tuck in, arms tight.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 11:47 AM UTC
It is a silver snail between the lips,
cold as a quarter bitter as a penny,
Not even the aftertaste of chlorine.
Patchy F# smoker’s exhalations
Grit the teeth and the ball of cork
lolls in its belly.
Look down your nose
it looks back at you,
Blurred.
Look back at you.
On sticky tile bare toes clenched,
and chin lowered to chest, pool-parched lips
Took the Acme Thunderer and—
Blew.
echoes whipped from ceiling to surface to
bare-slick backs of streamlined swimmers.
Spines curved into fins—
Lungs collpasing slow as a circus tent
Even the bubbles tittered with reverberation
Faster.
Not a splash as pointed feet flicked at the ankle
Casting expanding triangles of wakes
And lips kiss-close to the plastic lane line
Breathed.
And finger-tips yearned for that two hand touch.
And now—
Blow.
Only shivers of sound.
Just spit it out.
That unmusical clang as it hits the desk.
Exposing distresses of is and was
escher-impossible to tell which is which.
Waiting for that hollow echo
of high ceilings and deep water.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
Underneath a canopy
Moonlit and cloudy
Your body rested against mine.
The night seemed effortless
Much like our first kiss
That day's eve was sublime.
And we drove out of the city
To a place with red rocks and Juniper trees
So together in moonlight
We shared another night.
And when we drove down the mountain
I did take the long route
So together we got lost in a desert blackout,
So may the short fuse hiss towards a boom
That will scream my hearts discontent
As my love lights up and begins to bloom
While all of my patience is spent.
Yet never fear my dear for the bomb is a dud.
Instead of a sparks and fire a lily flower did bud.
For what your eyes may hide I will never know
But for eternity I will spend wondering so
And how the sun and moon seem so lovely
Whenever I wonder what it is that you see.
And at the top of the flight
Of these wide, white stairs
For the rest of our lives
I would wait for you there.
Up-top the flight
Of these wide, white stairs
I would wait
Arms held out, opened wide,
My guard let down
My face without a frown
For I have no need to hide from you.
And still the sun it lolls
Through its daily stroll
As the season changes its colors.
And still the moon it passes
Through its nighttime pageant
As the stars burn out of existence.
Time may beat us with age
So we each may turn our page
As our story must be writ,
Still your love I will yearn for it.
And I might throw my little fits
With all my kicks and my spit
While you absence colors me blue,
Still my heart will burn for you.
You'll always have a place in me,
Underneath my breast, inside this chest
In a small little black dot that is my heart of hearts,
You can have that spot.
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 6:54 AM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
I'm not here to write romantic (when I try it sounds sarcastic)
and I'm not here to talk about the world we look out on
through eye windows- it's only earthy, it's only dust
and too much rain from too much sky
or too much space or too much city,
too sooty, too dry.
I can't find the romance in a square of tarmac
or even the rolls of sloping hills.
Give me discourse on the stratosphere-
for that is something I can lust over-
on heaven and on hell and on all the demons between.
Talk to me about the universe, per aruda ad astra.
Write something for me and show me only when I can
learn from it that there's more than
the shimmering stretch of stone and soil
between me and my appointment tomorrow at half past ten.
It's not much to ask, when you think about it
in a waiting room where minds have been lost;
It's not much to ask to want a reminder
that our lives are more
than what listlessly lolls beneath our feet
and that their prints are more precious
than just stamps on sand or concrete.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
Ready your red canvas,
Fasten the straps of your boots
The silver spurs can't weigh
You down more than fear has already.
Remember, you are not alone.
We in the stands are watching
While you dance in circles with the beast
Teasing him with your canvas,
Waving it like an enemy banner before his
Crazed eyes, his pierced nose garnished
By a gold ring, whose furious nostrils spout
Blood in every snarl.
We in the stands,watching
are not here to see a beast subdued by
Calm words or a stroked ear.
We came to see a man gored,
Pierced through his stomach
Tossed limp against the ground
Blood that feeds the grass and our
Eyes.
But you did not enter into this ring to die.
You came to conquer the beast,
To pounce upon his massive shoulders,
Grasp him by his mighty horns
To ride his bucking back, amidst
The brays and snarls, the jeering crowd
Until your blade has met his neck and
His tongue lolls from his mighty maw,
You came to fight; you came for victory.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
up
as a paper doll
in blouse and skirt
and knitted shawl
and it’d hurt
between the lolls
when he didn’t call
He cut me
down
as an old oak tree
with tainted words
dropped to my knees
cut me in thirds
in a fell swoop breeze
He cut me
in
the spring
as tulips bloom
cut all my heartstrings
not to resume
this threadbare fling
He cut me
out
of his life
with a pen
not a knife
and then
took a wife
Jan 31, 2022
Jan 31, 2022 at 6:01 AM UTC
*Dream I
We are underneath a treehouse.
He pulls the cord
to raise the platform on which we stand
and I splinter my hands
gripping cedar as we swing against gravity
stomach lurching in the heights.
He chortles
as I beg to be let down again.
Dream II
We are in bed,
yet I feel lonelier than if he were
a million miles away, or under another's sheets
and I grimace
as he tells me not to speak -
that my voice annoys him
even when my whispers, my caresses
are merely my love incarnate.
Dream III
We are in a bar without walls.
He smiles, dances on the bar top
backlit by a blue mirror and bottles
with a dark-haired wisp of a girl in white
and she isn't me.
No, I was unexpected.
I say hello and his smile disappears.
This observation spears my guts, as
he pretends not to hear.
I order a drink and pretend I never tried.
Dream IV
He leaps and gestures and goads,
poking fun and inspiring deepest belly laughs
and I should be blissful
but he flits from table to table
always passing mine.
Saving his jokes and witticisms
though I can think of a billion replies
better than everyone else's.
I turn to our mutual friend
who shrugs and lets it slide
saying this happens all the time.
Apparently, I am an audience
now considered too cheap
to buy.
I Wake...*
The television flickers.
His heads lolls onto my shoulder
and his longshank of a leg twitches.
I want to weep or ***** so
I move and
his arm tightens around me.
I want to shake him, when
his lips that are even softer, pinker than mine
uplift at the edge, and
part to whisper,
"Stay."
Each night I fear I have lost him forever
and each day I wake to find he loves me still.
What will it take to convince me in the dark
of what I, in the daylight, know by heart?
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
Under the cherry tree
The dog rests her head
Lolls her tongue
Yawns big
Then rests her head
Carefully between
her front paws
Looks up alert
Oh no!
A bucket!
Now her head is trapped
In the bucket
In an attempt to get it off
She walks into a fence
(where did that come from?)
Then two gentle hands
Come to the rescue
And the bucket leaves her alone
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
Sweet wind that brings me desert dust and ashes
Or salty mist as blood on burning lips
Sweet wind that carries smells of roads and mountains
And rocks, and sands, and rusty wires, and tires,
And bullet-pierced sandbags, mines, and empty tins
And holy thorns that grow through them
And hot, bleak sky high over them
And dry, cracked clay embracing them
Sweet wind that brings me memories of war
Wind softly stroking dusty oleanders
And rushing all along the endless road
Wind –
Now tell me, when the land so lolls in sleepy peace –
Kids playing, women chatting, lovers dreaming,
Men building houses, furnishing, arranging –
All more fragile than cobweb lace
That busy housewives sweep away on sleepless daybreak
Sweet wind, tell me why I
I try to fill my mind with buzz and humdrum
Of knowledge – words, and thoughts, and numbers,
-- to stifle the voice, the shadow haunting me –
The voice that whispers softly, sweetly killing
To wake me up – to find myself again –
To send me far away where is my home:
To prison, madhouse, hospital, dodjo,
Wet dugout, earthquake rubble, secret lab
Where I belong, where all like me are going –
But still in vain,
For happiness, my prison guard and mate
Me torturing,
And happiness, the evil sheikh of nightmares,
His long, thin legs me strangling, hanging down
My shoulders,
His mud-brown hands me stopping ears, and eyes, and mouth –
And me
Who wanders through my days as empty rooms
And endless corridors of giant fallout shelters
Where lonely steps reverberate in hollow hallways
And ruthless light
In which the shadow of my shadow
Me follows – counselor, and silent friend,
Unhurt by splinters of that broken magic mirror
That **** in air; may some benumb my heart
And let me play the game of words and numbers
That spells ETERNITY;
And let the sweet hashish of words and numbers
Make me forget;
Make me forgive, and live, and lie
That I believe the world of war will never come.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 6:28 AM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
Walking home,
a girl in an orange
of a shirt and long
bell-bottoms
with a small protuberant
***
turned around to look at me.
Her eyes were large,
and the way she looked at me
was a question almost:
Are you dangerous?
Maybe, she wasn't looking at me,
maybe the breeze kicked up,
and she just wanted to shield herself.
But I don't know,
something in the way
she looked at me,
The quick stoicism
of her large blue eyes,
shocked into a quick
heavy moment of recognition:
black guy.
hoodie.
black baggy pants.
the scowl.
I knew that soon her eyes
would wiggle out of there sockets
and dangle behind her
always looking back
even as she kept moving forward.
The illusion of moving forward.
I felt like the black guy
the news tells you about,
the one that's dangerous
to all lonely white females
at 9:00 at night,
as his tongue lolls
and his head wags.
Maybe,
I'm being too sensitive.
Maybe,
I'm being hypersensitive.
Why is it
that whenever I see a white female
walking towards me at night
I cross the street?
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 9:22 PM UTC
do you dissociate too?
do you find yourself floating in space?
not on a gentle cloud or on the wings of a soaring eagle,
but on my own, supported by just air as i lose my head.
do you find yourself underwater?
not drowning but not breathing either.
the water rushes in my ears and the voices beside me are muffled
so i am left on my own with only my thoughts to accompany me.
do you find yourself gliding above ground?
i work through motions and play like a puppet on strings.
my feet never touch the ground while my head lolls on my shoulders.
my ears are plugged, my hands are clasped to still them.
the noise of the whole world is attacking me but i cannot decipher a word.
do you dissociate too?
please don't tell me i'm the only one.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
withered eyes a
crescent moon of
dusk under the
pupils red lightning
cracking across
blank pages born
from some unseen
space beyond the
corners
when the head lolls
back the neck snaps
to refocusing on the
unseen nothing in
the physical to grasp
at looking through
all layers of deceit
at an inside a
center that cannot
exist but is always
there
motion is the mirror
the frame the negatives
rolling seamlessly teeth
and sprockets a perpetual
rotation immune to friction
faction and conflation
singular in its mindlessness
just an eye bloodshot with
nebulae as everything
collapses in on itself at the
speed of light passing
through the central retinal
vein feeding information
into the unseen center of all
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
.
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 1:51 PM UTC
From there, it took off
In a tight and furious arch
That so fast
Seemed slowed
By heartbeats
Tied to a certain spark, accelerated
As it came flying back towards the land again
Like some sort of strange bird
Or insect
So controlled, yet so headily wild
Throwing back its head
Catching on fire
Burning down the line
Burning down its spine
All pressure telling it to fly
From the post
Burst outward
In an explosion akin to stars
Or bullet wounds
Arching, terribly fast
It hits the palm of my hand
And lolls like a tired dog
Breathing
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 2:03 PM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
.
Veined wings fell when I died,
Fell in mid flight on one last
May Day, on fire with the sun—
Only the dust knew me there,
It fell so gracefully with me.
A downy feather, once was—
Dropped from on high, before
A great white falcon turned the air,
Even thought to prey or of stooping,
Of noble birth was I, falling earthward.
One dry— red, pine needle fell,
Lost in thick piney bed of so many
Others strewn on the forgotten said,
The wind as it unceremoniously fled
And now no path was leading there.
At one grassy edge of a ******
Bay some gravel clay gave way
To form a place where water, airy,
Lolls and eddies into tiny whirlpools
This was all the dance of my days,
Only the dusk knew me there—
And the unobserved eclipse going
Through all its phases and a forest
Fired, under clovers without bees,
Veined wings— fell when I died.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC