Thursday, October 16, 2008


What becomes of the prey,
silk in the seams of the harlequin's gown,
as though the angel might be induced to smile

they become scarce
emeralds into broaches
the accompaniment of bird

the clown tumbling in a mauve landscape.


Likkered up he ain’t no poem,
is: the hawk distended fells
the sparrow in open air
ordination in the village
with high song
fraught with the Widow’s final rites
some years hence;

the boy’s gray hair sparse and disheveled
in the wind-
the low orbit of the hawk
will carry him screaming over the earth.


Set against the wall of the angel
it must void itself,
mark the trail of the sparrow flailing
leave its worth in unsaying
particular or worse
in the shoals where the rocks are sharp
and blood is dispersed.

had the angel spoken
leisure would be at hand-
the sparrow safe upon the widow’s shoulder

a word
to shatter ill-kept stars
shuddering to an end
a calliope no longer shouldering the wind;

the owned word listless with praise
sun raised
a blood salt
ungiven to pain
the harlequin tumbles in plain sight
in the eye of the hawk.


Set against silence
the eye world does not blink
turbulence shears the blood
the pink foam laughing
seeds the sea,

The leaf falls
lovers seat themselves in coves
the beaten flesh endures
coveting words,

the widow’s web
a bridge to soar upon
while the hawk weaves
between the threads
his wings outspread.