1/
the poem as landscape
the definition
of a place
is more than
what was seen
or what was
felt
before
when dreaming
of the dead
the way
a
conflagration
wrapped itself
around his
world
leaving in his
mind
a trace of
dunes
the fallout
from
a ring of
mountains
reminders
of a vanished
earth
the landscape
marked with
rising tufts
the hardness
of
clay tiles
that press
against
our feet like
bricks
the soil
concealed
beneath its
coverings
through which
a weave
of twisted
wires
crisscross the
empty
field as
markers
to commemorate
the hapless
dead
the ones who
fly
around like
ghosts
bereft of
either
home or tomb
in what would
once
have been
their world
the count
fades out
beyond 10,000
leaves them to
be swept
down endless
ages
fused together
or else set
apart
lost nomads
on the road
to desolation
a field on
mars
they wait to
share
with
others
dead at last
2/
a deep romantic chasm
Head facing downward
I descend the chasm
little caring
about space or time
my face caught halfway
between dark & light
a mix of random chance
& kindred circumstances,
before I reach the bottom
& a narrow street
alongside which I spot
a darkly churning stream
& follow it
until I reach its source.
Here is a world
outside of time &
season* *rhyme & reason
only broken by the
sound
of ghostly birds
that blast us till we
find
that we’ve arrived
nearby a field behind
a battered wooden
fence,
the specters in that
world
stare out at us,
move back & forth
until they cover the
horizon, come
forward, forward
rising in their
legions.
All they have to offer
is a turn, a word,
a sound that we can hear
& answer in return,
what has long been known
but left unspoken,
words from inner space
the tongue turns off,
the dead will learn
to speak again, the universe
is theirs & covers them
until they
flee at morning,
leave us in a
dream still,
faces awash with dew.
This will be
the final book
the poet
dreams or writes,
whose home is
in his mind
or maybe
elsewhere,
follows it
around the world
to where it
leads him,
a space forever
dark
an air so heavy
that he cannot push through it
or recognize the faces
waiting for
him as before
too distant to
pursue,
the world once
full of smiles
now dark with
tears.
I am not he,
the wanderer,
the captive,
the one who
lives his life
as in a dream,
the messages
that reach him
from a dying
galaxy
fall on deaf
ears,
echoes of an
empty sky
the final
world bereft
of sounds
& images,
returned to
what it was,
adrift &
mindless,
the grim
memento
of its absent
god.
3/
Larger Than Life
He is left
without a word
but nailed
onto his bed
like someone
crucified
he
starts to dream
of
Europe
in
a countryside
where
angels
run
half-blinded
feel
the power waning
from
a dying sun,
long
shadows form
a
wall of snakes
each
one a shape
that
dangles
ghostlike,
clambers up
a
single tree
each
with a face
much
like a babe’s
the
light escaping
from
their eyes
the
eyelids
chewed
&
cast aside
days
beyond days
how
many lost
while
dreaming, playing
murmuring
the songs
their
fathers sang,
still
in their minds
no
time for solace
nor
a moment’s rest
the
man locked in
the
prison of his bed
from
which a foot
breaks
free, a hand
frantic
& fierce
escapes
from his,
the
punishment
for
angry words
let
loose
no
longer muted
calling
forth a shudder
or
a sigh
to
mark the end of
space
& time
nowhere
to turn or hide
before
the ending
when
the dead
bury
the dead
the
road to nowhere
opens,
no one
riding
it but smacking up
against
a wall
to
die in pieces
like
the image of
the
battered body
of
their god
hidden
beneath
a
bed of leaves
the
ground around him
carrying
the stain
that
pain delivers
as
a harbinger
the
victory of death
against all
life.
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