I Need Yesterdays
reprieve thickening
in threatening
the still winter light
encrusted as a high
gray sky in thickness
turning in another silence
as in the waiting
for the water to boil
for the tea to steep
in insistence
it is your veins I notice
blueish under skin
disrupting the light
as grainy day takes shape
spreading on the edge of shadow
spacing out
in the forming of space
or in the marring
of the mute water
withdrawn from river bank
turning over another silence
like the books
recounting wars endlessly
or the bottles with red
lipstick along the rim
hidden among the apartment
and there's no madness
but this one life
hanging savagely
in the possession
of our smallest sensations
in the waiting for the tea
in the many things
surfacing continually
and nothing is ours
as the bass throbs
through the thin walls
and the oil in drums
along the river
sit under the gray light
the blank face
of the moon
pale in the day
and so much
we once coveted
shaved and emptied
nicking at every breath
and the concepts
difficult to grasp
believing in what they do
in the heaven we’ve inherited
of the feeling of learning
to speak
as the broad pruning
of language
and we are the turning
back of each page
to reread
what was mispronounced
beforehand
and nothing is ours
noting the pleasure in sight
and the fact of being
in the fact
that to be
is to be perceived
without recourse to thingness
where the knife marks
show in the fish
on ice
and we’ll meet
for coffee to talk
about how to
be in a world
cracking in spirit
where each natural fact
has gone to mulch
and you’ll be drunk
at midnight under
the streetlights walking
home
and the pressing awareness
inward
knowing that in actuality
its all grace becoming
If Only to Look
own saturation intensely,
as if in a grey ash
slowly saturating
the soft mica,
embedded to glitter,
though meaning
literally but a crumb,
and that terrible
quickening in intensity,
to ignite
in provocation if provoked
beyond any semblance,
and those still, same,
simple eyes looming,
tellingly life likened,
through the ambrosia
of mists and forms
and the clouds,
the fog hanging densely
in the streets,
where the light ignites,
saturated in its stacking
arc, to mean simply
stricken and exposed
in the arising and acting,
in the forming
of the treasonous distance off,
or else,
not only in the breathing in,
as in a sudden unfoldment
of lung in a light rain,
but in the transcended
nucleus of iris,
strangely to see prone,
flushed open through cresting sun,
heard as in synesthesia,
ringing like a bell
in the grotto