Treefall came duskly, and with it, adjustment like The reading of a will. Nature deeded the grasses prerogative, And pioneer mosses gathered upon one flank, there to sow in fallow flesh. The waters of allocation flowed to increasing size, by their love inviting the beetles An examination, and boring, then the quails who found gaps To swaddle their young. A bolster of marmots Erected a hollow, and elk signed grazing rights In annuity. What's funny is that man shuffled elsewhere, Unaware. At treefall, Attila sacked Rome and drove home chortling. Nature set a watchman, who attended an empty proceedings peevishly, And fifteen centuries later received the latecomers, Who bore axes and allowed grins to spread over Dirtied profiles. The watchman relieved, the men unperceived tackled the corpse In bare awareness of their ethical non-place, and Hollowed out their cosignatories. What's more, They did not stop there.
Make of me a new man in your image, mockingbird. I swear Fidelity to your cause, constancy in ideology. I want to trill The Babel tongues and hear your new stories. Where did you say I could find your mother, and hers? Chart me a course, And my own southwestern discovery I will defy, You and yours honorably to lay to rest. Come down, Come down O songbird. Come down and pick of my berries. They were lashed fast to their masts, and as Siren forwent Ulysses for his many men, I took to violence upon their mass. I reaved, saint. I tore from the ground their mother the roots, And indiscriminate flung my spoils in this knapsack. Come down and make hay of your day, bosom in sunlight. When inspiration lacks, command me a new shape and register: Then I will tilt these sorry tools skyward, and make for you what I can. Come down, sir!
I am here now, sixscore pages of gobbledygook that a languorous Aristocrat of Lisbon spat up goutily. Cheery scholastikoi All of a type rescued my mewling corpus, reaffixed a spine And deeded me even a face, the kind chaps. So lay I here upon my softwood rock, stealing glances, Letting the day’s percussive drawer-pulls Lullay my monocle shut. My throat scratches after milk. When one day the incident ray reveals an inviting touch, And my flaps are broadened, spine cracked, Then I realize my calling: for I allow the wildebeest eye the time it needs To drink fully. Its breaths come uncertain. I pass no judgment on the mistakes it will take from me and my maker, Thoughtful of the foibles of readers who need Something external, historical merely to remind themselves Of the present’s unslippable grasp. When next I receive the ray and resolve The image of the pronghorn, my own eye Be moot.
The pocket my feet came to rest within Is no longer with us, I probe, Cul artlessly ripped from sac. Now my toes obtain cooler air, Abseiling with unimpeachable trust in their belays. Now I reshoulder this gleaner's bag and keep picking, Fearful of the fall. The blanket, so carefully lain to start the night, Is askew. The dog now occupies No small portion of our pitch, upturned, unawares. What is required next of me will be some crook in the sinuous form, An adaptation against the direction of motion, A fearful plunger bracing himself halfway down the waterfall, Hoarse, incapable already of what comes next. Did Those my forefathers unrecognizable In any annals of scrivening man Take themselves to contortion, Faced with muted, terror-stricken midnight arousals? Surely. Then why feel I As though I in dawny manhood must This trail alone, unaided blaze?
As to vector fields and iron filings rustle The breeze-propell’d wavelets, uncountable Upon this body so expansive. Perhaps You could palpate the troubled surface as Though it were the leaves of a mille-feuille Unsheaved like a dealer’s cards. Take a step, And ponder containing so much, Extending your consciousness in long fingers To this face, granite, and the other, basalt. Across your drumskin top will swirl eddies of wind, And laboring ospreys may lance through To snarl an unsuspecting bass in your shallows.
I spit an Antarctic blubber, And bubbles, which I take as penguins, Slide down the sides of the sink To join the flows of LA’s sewers. I am not one of Carlos’ men, but can Command the image before me of A fearful Jesuit in his own morning routine. Matins concluded, face washed, he will turn to his desk And there read an imperial missive whose Import will evict his fraternity from California. In calm repose He may meander to his goats, and, Milking, weep. Separating he and I are alone three centuries, And what rough beast ever thought that span Too wide to leap?
What is it to look upon a sunset? Is it to discern among the brilliance of color (Were the word alone sufficient) Its constituent components, and thus to gain some insight As to the nature of things? Is it instead to gaze into the world reflected, The whorling hills which goodly Hermes on his way sends, The clouds in their bosom brotherliness like another earth? Is it to gain the sense of an ending, The only one available to conscious thoughts, And so to obtain a degree of peace With it All? Regardless, incipient on your tongue ought be The dispossessed billions of this shale solid, Arcing towards galactic quietude, Asking themselves the same in Bahasa or Aymara. You could be a Buendia out of Macondo, deathless by the grace of your creator, A sometime docent and latterly magician, But you are made of solider stuff, and good too. Consider the alternative: you could be festooned With a sense of the criticality of this one, And careen howling from hawker to hawker, Kneeling, bawling, tearing at sleeves and your own knotted hair, Begging, scratching, “Don’t forget, don’t Forget.” Your partner is already some paces away, Bellyful of introspection, and appetite whetted. This happens, after all, Every day.
Scrape, sibyl, down from the trees their bark And with that fashion for me a new axe handle For my own was rent in the capture of your pig.