Pastorale

Under oak and terebinth

with the ox and bullock lowing,

with grain and grapevine growing,

I am well-pleased with

all the chthonic powers, in

August, when we

bear the burden;

November, when

we lay it down;

December, when we

brood and button;

March, when we

stir and think;

and May, when we

prepare the August burden.

By the wadi

on the dust

in the shade

of gliding wings

where the ragged

mouthpiece sleeps.

Desideratum

I want so dearly to be a maker,

but what am I but a thief of words?
The knotted fingers and the

callused palms are the waysign

and the secret marks—the bearer

smiles, inclines the head.

Your splendid, shining bones,

and the way your eyes would

switch and gleam…

The going under of the other—

The condescension of the Son.

The tip of my tongue at

the edge of my teeth:

I want so dearly to be a maker.

Moving Pictures

The widow walked up the hills
and the sun went with her:
black veil in golden light, which
is all the American beatitude.

Good morning, sir, God give
you peace by a broken jaw.

A slow walk to a distant car,
and the morning is
bright like winter—pressed
fingers on wheel leather,
and this is the day you
forget your music.
Humming is not like hearing,
and you are by no means a singer.

While I Prophesy

Tracing the worried orbit
around the flaw in your dark eye,
silver crack in earthy iris

above and below it
beside it beside it

I
try

charms and potencies
and deft flicking fingers

and all the while
you stand by

you have no need
for me to rectify
what is, after all,

only a spot of light
in your
twice-lucid eye