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poetry_fiction2020-10-01 08:46 pm
pf_mod) wrote in poetry_fiction2020-10-01 08:46 pm
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We'll never be
so clean again. As if the face
leaning over my cracked sink
were yours, the fogged up mirror
a mere alibi.
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From Cities for Carter
My city forgets its own present, laughs
too loud with pals in bars and downs another
pint
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I could lose myself in those waters, break
like a wave: after three hundred years of nowhere
to be found, the knife still dark in my hands,
in my feet and my mute tongue. Call me that foam.
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I'm a clock without a face,
I'm blind like time, so lead me on: wear me
on your wrist and I'll tell you things
you might not know,
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From A Photo of the Berberini Faun
Wrong for wanting what I did, wrong too
for never getting it: not gods
but men, walking like gods, talking
that way but not to me.
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Also, if you would link me to the complete poem or include it somewhere, I would be grateful. Thank you.
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From Placet Futile
You keep the absence of this in an amber locket,
a map of years sketched on your palm: you think
there are no borders there. I won't propose the scene again.
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I'll be the things
left behind for you, I'll be much kinder
then. I'll kiss the drowning atmosphere
all a summer's afternoon, and that's not all.
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To open those locked doors of language
I'd hand the heroes over: I can love
even the truth at that distance, gilded
with innocence and fatal gestures.
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I never asked
to spend the width of oceans drinking salt
from your skin. Stranger with ash
for fingertips. You burned away
the mortal parts.
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You
cauterize my sleep, you're part of it
by now. What else do you want
from me, except to disappear? I'd like that
too.
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From Who Owns the Night and Leases Stars
No one picked me
up or put me back in place, no one asked me
the time, and I told him the truth. At four A.M.
I went walking, waiting to be touched.
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Thank you!
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From Acmeist Night
Devoted, I want to die
these brilliant days, blind nights echoing
insistent sun on skin. Season with ashes
in its mouth, the willows burning.
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From Roman Year
Sudden storm, then sudden sun. Give me,
I almost said: and stopped, began again
with your voice, what gets invented by the
I-can't-say-that-here.