transpiration

the cracked earth,
yellow weeds--waving
dry,

cut the sky, cast it
in the dust,

remember, when it
would race,

rush, cold--carry
peak to valley

leave remnants of
its reification,
pooled in their roots

the pasture dreams,

beneath the banks
the river darts
between the rocks

seeps upwards
rises,

is taken, unfinished
upwards,

promises to come again

aquifer

for the time,
all things might wait,

for we gather, in the lip
of fallen mountain, a

valley, broken by dirt--

wait, gathered
below,

(love--that last,
that least--)

absorb, unwilling, what
lies beneath us,

let someone's folly,
raise us,

free

of any legacy, forget
below--forget

to carry--

the cost of chance, the
cost of rest, of peace,

if we rise.

flood

the sedimentation holds back the river,
the culvert, this,
holds the last remnants of the flood,
it might eat the banks,
it might crest over the banks,

it might eat the dirt, and cast it
where least useful,
carries everything to where it

is not supposed to be, might
deposit it into
the place, where all things gather,
they might consume--

what was there, might suffocate
what was there, might

might grow, might fall--might
wait, might rise

above the banks

the dry place, is screaming, streaming
falling, from the rim,

is falling, is failing-is streaking from
the rim, may the gates, hold

may the gates fall, may the flow
remember, it’s shape

beneath the ground.

xxxxxxvi.

once upon this street--
I cannot speak--
the unutterable,

the unspeakable
faith--

I cannot say,

a thousand countries and
not one nearer

than the failing thread, I would
bleed to remember,

a hundred moments, not one
nearer than

the shadow on the ceiling,
flailing upon the

the lesser shadow, the
greater dark, the sky

speckled with stars, the
silence,

I draw a thousand borders,
streaming, the silhouette

streaming, a thousand countries
before dawn

ragged (i)

the edges trailing
ragged glory,

the slant bridge,
the sun

falls, into the murky
water,

and the lions,
hanging on the walls,

with the lamb,
in the window, the gleam

to the street, and in
the morning,

in the blue--the man
rolls his suitcase, along
the cobbles

xxxxxxv.

if you and a better heaven,
or a more interesting hell--

--then we should walk, in
the scree, along the tracks,

over them,

the grayed in grass, and the
paths silent, past

the benches, and the turnout
overlooks the freeway

down among
the streets,

when the moon is slivered,
a chunk of light,

and the houses are silent,
the streets fall

and twist, if you--and I
fall with them,