The Last Line

Sagittarius Rising, Revised

The august and heavy burden of perfection

In the night sky: There are no torn edges there—-

I’m at a loss under its solidity, scale giving a sense

Of where I am. What if I could contain it, here,

In my eyes, the darkness and the pattern? Rise

So high there are no more horizons. Open,

Unfold with ease. That vastness would silence

Me—I would disappear into that dreamless,

Unforgiving sleep and ask no more questions.
 

Sagittarius Rising

The august and heavy burden of perfection

In the night sky: There are no torn edges there—-

I’m silent under its solidity, scale giving a sense

Of what moves. What if I could contain it, here

In my eyes? Open and unfold with ease?

Would that vastness silence me?

Would I disappear?
 

Darkness and Patterns

 Take of the fruit, but guard the seeds.

                           --Led Zeppelin

 

Look about you-—This is what you are,

Even maybe broken. When that last glance

At the moon raises questions about physics

(Is it rising? I think it is, all metaphorical),

That’s when you’re there-—in doubt, all and all.

That’s wisdom; but don’t glare at it or tell it

What to do. It’s not a dog, not your remote.

Warp and woof, there’s a flaw, always

Face it: There’s bird shit on the shiny Mercedes

Of your mind, a Rorschach test for you. Lose

Me in it, pattern and repetition, without

The august and heavy burden of perfection.
 

 

The Poet Stands in the City of Reflection

Closing my eyes I’ll build, become the song

Of my own city’s creation: This is my world,

These gutters and walkways and chartered

Trees, regularly spaced. I send out my ideas

Of you like tendrils from the grape vine, seeking

Support in beautiful belief in itself, autogenesis,

Spreading my arms in tragedy and survival,

Truth and the single note of deception:

Rock dove or pigeon or feathered rat;

Smog or haze or the setting for the fractured

Purple glory of the slow light leaving another day-—

Look about you-—This is what you are. 
 

The Crow’s Resurrection

This is the morning after the singing bird

Awoke the sleeping crow—a dream of a lovely

Voice. He blinks, tilts his head, remembers

And desires. I will sing! But sound rumbles

Out in a tumbling clack, black beak wide.

 

I will shift my dark shape—that’s the flaw:

I am not that, so I must become it, and he hunches

On the branch, fluffs and shakes, sets his mind’s

Eye on bright bars of color and delicate feet,

But light disappears on him still, sturdy on the branch.

 

It’s the day, he says, that makes me what I am!

I can be both at once, the beautiful feather

And the considered hop, fashion a complicated tune—

Waning into night, I’ll shine and sing as I wish:

Closing my eyes I’ll build, become the song.