The Last Line

horror vacui

 

The mango’s mottled orange and red, the sunset.

Black brush strokes on the black ground in the chapel.

Filling the air with a rising song, even the sparrow

Shuns silence and shoulders space. In any room,

I see only you (and in your absence, the memory

Of you).  This is our condition: The vines formed

By knots in the warp and weft lead to themselves

Until they cover the floor, the medallion our Center,

The lamps our Beginnings and Endings. Each lotus

Is a moment, the script a written future I can’t read.

Is there more? You may reflect on the fabric as time,

Or flesh, or matter—-you  may consider the knot

Eternal. You may consider connections: This mango,

Rothko’s brush, a sparrow, the carpet, all of you.

 

 

Bruises

 

The veneer of bruise blue on the sea is deceiving:

The long, long memory under the surface of things,

Unfathomable. You think you see a mark of pain

On the skin, but it’s a system, a mechanism, a seal.

The ocean, the memory, the body will heal.

 

 

Love Song

 

Your voice in my blood, the nerves thrum—

I know who you are, and you respond

By singing even more to me about you.

I have, I have you. . .You are, you are:

Raise your eyes to the sudden flight

Of starlings on the wind: The sound

Of your breathing. The gold curve

Appears, the sun rising: My first

Glimpse. The touch of ocean air after

Long absence: Your skin. I have a feeling

I will always find you, no matter how far.

 

 

Too Far West

 

A lost oriole, and I’m reminded to reorient

Myself: Any storm can drive us off course.

I can see new vast horizons: They disappear

On my approach. It’s an excellent thing,

The disappearance West, the constant setting.

Vishnu the Preserver is called the Sleeper

On the waters—-I emerge from time, fold

The past into now as it slips away eternally.

The oriole is lost, but it’s evening in the city

And the day must end no matter where

 

I am.

 

 

 

Subject/Object

 

Like the bow flowing over the cello

Strings, the blood moves through the soul.

I hold the first berry of Summer,

An economy of Spring. Its seeds

Will never know soil, but I will

Recompense with this praise of sweetness

In the thing consumed. The tender

Understanding of the tongue:

Experience Itself.  The body

Of our love is a body of memory.

 

 

 

What the Eagle Said

 

The river fills with snowmelt, and egrets fish

While the drone of the overpass surrounds

Us, unheard. I’m pondering the similar nature

Of our labors (theirs and mine): The slow quiet

Patience of our Vigilance: We will wait

And the moment will come, give itself

Away with a silver flash and we will strike.

When the sudden shadow of an eagle slides past,

It touches me, the water, the egrets, with black;

We all look up in alarm. I catch the eagle’s slanting

Glance and he dips a wing, wheels above and says,

 

It’s windy in the aerie. This is no time for rest.