17.i.21
383
2.17
two poems
in summer go under whole skies of
grass
by
leaf go
collect
against the drought
and
someone to the top of a blade
abandoned
to the bottle, swim
briefly,
with the stars now
conjure
make
dust or mud to suit
come
wings
none
least
but
all to skin
ceaseless
expansion
trip
or traipse
bite,
sting
in
summer beside
midnight
in
slothly
peel
me
moisten
and
place me under languorous fan
in
shades
too
bright the year when new
all
running repairs
light
blessings
fire
fearful in the darkest
and
briefly briefly
day
from the nearly south now
in
not-a-prayer for shade or breeze
forage
in summer when everything grows
it’s
all cicada-say
and
frogsong till first up
dress
lightly
if
at all
around the fire
(not
exactly an ekphrastic, but thinking of Augustus Earle)
was
never beginning
but
come all telling, in turns
to
rest
from
the world till now
who’s
to the pot?
and
it revolves
by
spoon or stick
framed
days in the falling
once stolen for a dare
come, carry on
and
we rotate like worlds there
back
to, mainly
it’s
who-we-were
rattle
off names
(a
lot of begetting)
but
mainly adventure
stones
to warm us warming there
minded
of the bees
great
mother
other
heroes
(everyone
is or was, will be)
a
little sun
tricked
from sticks
all
our work’s not forgetting
and
summer remembered in the herd’s repose
fire
which
is a heart of sorts
goes
with us in certain stone
leaf
strike
till
the flower blooms
and
bright until
catch
shadows
way
to see from the dance
far
into the dream
o
monstrous forms!
what
sort of a name does a stranger bring?
you
smell from the track
ember
out
in
tin
will
we give welcome
creatures?
sing!
make
ruins
so
be sung
foment
a revolution
carnival
and turns at king
it’s
winter of a silence
when
the stars are long
tell
on
what
were we running from?
and
from the vessel
pour
till
we are lit with
eternities
tell here
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