Two Poems

In plainsong, canticle unhinging

I

let dreamers make the mauve whole, let them remake me supinelazy long-handle songs which make me write lazy rhymes, leonineanimals let out into ankhs; let white thyme be wild and appliqué;

II

let the white bunkers cave in, churching, let in locked-in ghostsin the back wall, let the third postern be built in to let them outthe chancy; one hanging onto the ceiling fan by its shard bladesariel legs spun round and round, to lop off naked reds; let the goersshovels to make bright-barn space, more milk-and-water eyes?

III

let the posies look pretty beyond thursdays? let the ochre goto buying cheaper, larger chapel flowers; chrysanthemums tempereddesire yet strangely templed, in vain, less easy, less old, ruggedrampart rafts and long boats made to shellac, coattail memory;

IV

duets make for difficult transversals, because one always whetslets the other follow through; so let out those unknown windowsthat’s what it feels like to live under a levee roof, black, scow;

V

let the matadors and mandrills go, maneless, redder rivetsrecite sacristy regret as reason, and love still; old words remind meof age and how it takes one by surprise, one celebrant decadeat a time; let this chaplet hope be wisdom arriving actually intercalating like a material collective promise(the principalities took the vases and left papyrus promises;how they ensured no one a godsend landing place)

VI

please let in the low plains, let slip those upper slopes, fenced inunder tree-line weather, underfoot like self-restraint,so we never forget the castaways, and how hard it was to breathe;

VII

hear the banshees? bloodlet flags for the mirrors?let go, alone, let the flashing lights in, in on all the undercroftawfulness; who will see the dead-set fenders drawingsilver arrows and stainless steely-green wings?but for the draughtsmen, what chorus and alcove aria, which amens;

VIII

let this year’s gift be newly gifted? not to read mid-day montaigneperhaps soft friendship, enough wrestling with sunrise factsits shadows; no more polar provisions yet one more blank-eyed bird;which of them will be led homeless like a higher place like being;and being able to read and sing and laugh and moveand revisit, and not have to wonder about which small riverswhat to think about all of it, the seawalls of all of it.

EXCERPTS FROM “GIGI’S GRAPHOLOGIST & THE NGADHU GECKO”

Excursus :: digression

So, are you or are you not part of the Society? Gigi’s question has stuck. “Yes and no,” Jesuit says, in the nuanced way that Jesuits are known for. Not indecisive at all. In fact, it’s a solid defense, completely true, it’s just that there’re multiple ways to look at one thing. And the sense of whether one belongs, whether one is in or out of the Society, has as much to do with ecclesiastical authority as with one’s personal authority. “Let’s just say Jeremy Irons would have liked to be the one hauling all that armor up the mountain,” Jesuit says. “Against the force of a waterfall. There’s a scene in it when Robert De Niro is completely exhausted, the climb being too much, even for him—a soldier, a mercenary—and he’s at the top. And that depletion of the self, an entire life of arrogance, has him weeping. He’s completely broken, and the man of his past breaks down as well. Many people think he sheds his past, is forgiven of his sins and all the violence. But he really has embraced it, accepted that there’s the dark as well as the light. In him. And the struggle between the two is what he just endured.” Jesuit has spoken without thinking, an unusual thing. “Think of me as a fellow Ignatian,” Gigi says, in a soft smile. “This is all shared in confidence. Scout’s honor.” Jesuit laughs at her candor, dribbling some clam sauce over his rice. He takes...