Blogs

awake late.
red carnations on the tabletop.

the long carpet stretched out.

in windows silky black
half selves and whispers.

taxi cabs and streetlamps;
seething strains from the nightclubs,
a hundred faces
in the pavement.

and your face -
where, then, is it?
is it there, with the sandwiches?

or, in african violets burgeoning,
lion faces gazing
crimson faces, blue -

is it there?

here are the walls,
the windows,
the door.

and beyond -
a path winds down the slope
rat trees and scrabble,
and dead snails
and choking vines -

through the hill
where there will always
be more blackberries;

finger stabs
and stained fruit
and the end of me.

come with me.

Bring them back; we'll fill a glass bowl

and let them refract away -
in the red and silver;
my blood,
your forgetfulness.

trembling
in a fire
cliffs running down like black water,

flying
on a wire
stones on the shore, foot-cutting;

hiding
in clear pools
sea-monsters wandering, shrimp-small,

burning
in ripples,
while ulysses eats my heart on the sand.

hearing you is not living.
it is dissolving