Nine Poems

Monday

Monday must be on firebecause the blackbirdsthat frequent the towersof invisible palaceshave given their feathers away.

Please, leave the roomif you thinkyou are going to be frightenedwhen my words become mirrorsor exploding flowers.

Ribbons

Coarse grass benttoward the old man's imagination,wind opened his eyeswith what he called nature—

grass, wind, sunlight,and the thoughts of an old manhoisting themselves into the air.

The Boy

Morning opens like a fan.Pressure of sunlight.Intricate silences.

A boy enters my room.He carries a piece of silk,and a hand of fine porcelain.

Childhood,a songfifteen summers long,

a sadnesspropped in the bright curvesof the body.

Plum treesblossom in the yard.Beds of iris.New grass beginningon the hills.

No Kidding

I bent toward the grasslistening for the voicessomeone had hidden there.

I laughed when I discoveredthe words inside the wordsI had already discovered—

candles of the mind,leaves nailed to a star,a mouth filled with lightand gods invented by the sky.

I laughed at these,all of these,when I discoveredthe words inside the wordsI had already discovered.

I guess, I too, mustborrow the theme—how elsecan I report the sadnesswhen there was none?

The Twin for Richard Denner

He finds himself beside himself,beside a dog filled with lilies,a horse filled with angels.

He is not beautifulbut he is as the storm is notwhat he thinks he is.

As the mountains occurin the dream of his mother, he findsthere is certainly nothing

moreover than that.

The Day Off

Bird chirp, sunlight—God knows where it started.In the backseat of some car,I suppose.

Saturday nights.Yippee!Spread the branches wide;find the secret places.

Candy

I try to think about thingsthat will help me uncoverthe proper conditions,my name in the window,my thoughts in the door.

Of course, I was right not to runfor the office of secretary.Nevertheless, a shiphas fallen in lovewith its captain.

Time Out

Should we endthe same way we begin, do the answerscome to thosewho stick it out

in spite of the fearthey always feel, who dream of gracesas they wait to watch the otherswork and play?

The place becomes importantno matter what we say.A yellow cello singing to itselfserves as a reminder.

The day is full of birds.My nerves are shotand death participatesin everything.

For Carmen

The sound of tonight, she said,is not tonight.Nevertheless, here we aretrying hard to be together.

The sound of numbers, she said,terrifies me,and yet the roomis making room for us.

Her voice was a perfect color,and on the endof each of her words

I could see an ocean,an ocean of time,and a stone lady

who had discovered a placewhere there was no place,a place

beyond the governmentof any paradise.