Thursday, September 15, 2011

Oubliette

Still is an awning, untroubled by wind.
Every stroke, each heavy line, pushed blackly
thorough in ink. Am fleckwards, am opened
rib by rib and under belly bloat a deep
well for the brush, a fecund hollow bearing
whole-cloth each image exposed by bristle and
canvas commingle.

Still is old cloth, now crumpled. Owl sounds
lowing up from canopy, sunk below sunlimned
surface.  Sea-shade sloughs the last light,
wave caressed away by wind through
bird-frothed branches, coaxing down night.

But what in this dark sub-terre?  Whorled
crystal, or the spark of sanguine tectonics,
or in inch-worm intervals, through from
tabled sound and outer tones elbowing
so slow great tunneling branches outstretched
amazon oeuvre, each missionary tangle
building in earth-brown cathedrals from filament
to fistule to, loam scent spilling, pillars of oaken
puissance many miles deep.  What Kraken forest
under the earth, where each secret limb
lips up moisture and marries with boulders
breaking off slow children once every century
to roll one foot, or four, and then still.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Giants Orbiting

Wind stroke wing stoked flame knotted in wind. Tangled and
taught swiftness by rote. Though tugged with tumult, tower
slung like rigging over the splay of land.  On the wind is
too hot breath, is breaking tones and the clamour of chimes
or shatter?

What lungful? Each day a full billow blast borrowed against
the clock, a rhythmic hour, a lock step of century looming
and one garden planted with sundials and stone faces watching
the traffic of a single great flame where tracks turmoil.

Still, in the summer linger there is an undawn, and its sinking
face shades and shadows insolently, covering mouths gapped
with pleasure, or furtive hands, or a simple mixing of tongue
and cheek, a poured drink spilling over in festival froth.