In an effort to be the most honest and candid I can be, this blog will be very personal. There are somethings that I won’t share, because I don’t want to trigger others. As long as I think I have a voice that can be useful, I’m willing to share my experiences and stories with you.
woke up to the baby crying but no poem.
The horizons ring me like faggots,
Tilted and sisparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin eveaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.
There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
to funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones amont them.
The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their dirty wool- clouds,
Grey as the weather.
the black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space.
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig gurls and yelow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.
I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the soitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly;
Black stone, black stone.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in the valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grassbopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your precious life?
108
