Claim

I'd like to think of all of you, as little points of light

that if I see the sky glowing blue

and the sky-scrapers wreathed in haze

if I hear the chimes echo in the dark

that someone else watches

the light play across someone else's cheekbones

in a dim garage

where they're making music

and another smells the fresh scent of cilantro

rising out of the thin plastic bag

mixed with the sharp dampness of the night air

as they are walking home from the grocery store

I'd like to think that at least one

is thrust into delighted awareness

of the exhilaration and charging vulnerability

of the suicide pact we make each day on the 10

and grins with fierce gratitude

as they go jetting over the pot-holes

that someone stood on the sidewalk, at dusk

and lit a cigarette, and dreamed for awhile

until someone called them back inside

that we hold each other

as the night holds us

against the harsh light of day.

"We belong, we belong, we belong..."

--I stake my claim.

... (xxii).

the moon sucked
an ever-growing ring
of clouds, into itself
and glowing gentle and
bright as polished bone
at the center of a dark dome
in the sky
ruled the night, that night
when the clouds rested
low over the houses
smudgy and thick
soft as ragged wool

"I wonder how it does that--" she said,

and looked at me, and said, "--never mind.
I don't want to know."

I don't know.

note

let it be--that

I may have made a mistake

that's ignorance, you know

that's youth--to go humming

your own melody, softly

under your breath

and all unconscious of the clash

and clamor, when it runs up against

another--and two chords turn

upon each other--you don't know

dissonance

until you've heard it.

still--notes are strange

unwieldy things--who knows

how many, melodies are buried

in their vibrations?

how twisted, and arching

the gaps

between the pitches

that compose them?

who knows--but

I catch the echo

of a song I heard, once

much closer

--and I see that

although it twists past me

and wanders in the needles

--I glimpse it in snatches

I see that--

what I heard rang true.

lamp

the branches drooped sharp

and knife-edged

in their shadow

I felt teeth glinting

in my wake

I have walked through hell

--to come here

through the nine-hells of

my own devising

I heard the demons chattering

along the walls

I gave my toes

to the burning fire of winter

I gave my face

to the acid laughter of the wind

and turned my shoulders to its rush

I bled strength

across the hard-froze pavement

I went forward,

and going forward,

have come here--

oh--my far-off neighbor

whose house glows on the dark

hill-top

I will take your porch-light

as my lamp

I will wave no more torches

nor seek to burn the night

--as my lamp

and I will dance

down here--will no more strive

but to dance defter

here, below the circle

of its light.

ghost

the smell of smoke

and windows falling in rivulets

the streets, rushing in streams

of false-water,

shimmering in the sun

my beloved is dead

spun so furiously that

she flung herself over the ridges

and the blue shade,

rolling down the slopes

is her shadow

and the spark, where the road

turns at the summit

is the glint in her eye

but that strange, compact body

which twisted and rose

which moved of itself

that was for gripping

has flown apart

and settled over the ground

I will scatter my words,

and sing a lullaby in the daylight

with the moon hanging low

under the bristling palms

and the pepper trees dropping

their seeds in the dust.

it seems I am staring

out across the valley

from between her rib-bones

that the hazy ridges rise

under the curve of her knee

and her skin has gone

to cover the roof-tops

and what was beneath it

fills the streets,

teeming under the branches

but she holds the sky in her bones.

On York

if the streets are fear

and the sun is torment

and judgment

if the seconds are darts

and blades

separating your flesh

--then death does not come easy

and you never stride, singing

into the breach,

so--for the sake of releasing

who once saw the streets

with wonder

who once gloried in the light

you might go through

the sticky, laborious

process--

--of unpeeling your skin. you might

leave the--I--in rags

and go down screaming

weeping, as your pupils

consume you

you might go down in torment

hoping

--that you had released

it to the light

So...

so--with the drifts

of birds

winging in the soft blue

just before sunrise

flashing amber on their wings

carrying it--less sharp than the fire

which blazes in the windows

so--too

my soul, drift softly

and exult, easy

with the joy of daylight, coming

so, too--you

skreel, low over the valleys

you, go--

winging. and leave

the itchy, burning

husk--stretched and cracking

to crumble

with the dust.

Antigone

tonight, I mourn my dead

boldly

it's a bold thing to mourn

what no one grieves for

too cover the dead

the cracked eyes

with silver

to bring the stars

down

to the silent ground

blasphemy

to steal

beyond the sleeping city

to stand among

the wind blowing in the grass

the rustle

to go below the lighted windows

jingling

pennies for the Ferryman

against your side

to where they lie unburied

to kneel

to call on Heaven

"light their way forward"

the unseeing

lamps for them

"light their way forward"

the moonlight that catches the skin

some quick

and some frozen

that crackles on the sand

by this right--

I, who am the least of these

who am the least of all--

see them honored.