civ.

what you eat, and what you breathe
is in bone,
in time, over distance, unsurrendered,
if someone tells you who you aren't

they cannot deny the quiet logic
layered minerals
explain to vein and sinew that
they cannot be sundered

except that it falls to nothing
pools, starkly

the dispersed material will not
remake the world

ciii.

gather those things,
are leaving,

the thin tissue of myth
gossamer, flying

for fingers, crossing
empty air,

the sky beyond them,
blue or shaded and thick,
click a beat

caught in the ravines, invoke
time in the sun,
city-streets far away, the past
in the mind

cii

if the sun burns in blooms on the dog-wood
and the lamp hung halfway in the branches
lights them, and glows--then I can say
I'm happy to remember,
fare well where you're going

ci.

worn half-down to the bone, the man
leans against the marble

walls of the elevator, how's it going
down there?, I ask,

it's bizarre, he says, and touches a dry
palm to the gray skin of

his forehead, I've never seen anything like
it, it's just surreal, you know?

I can see how you'd say that, I nod, if you're
right in the thick of it, trying to produce

something out of it, the door opens, and
he trudges out into the flickering

light of the hallway, muttering, slumped
still walking, there's a bravery in that

greater than bold-faced cheers, and
colliding visions, greater than a thousand

hands raised to clutch the sky, to clutch:
the carpet with your feet, and walking,

is braver than a thousand voices raised
to fill the roof and square, than feet

in any street you can think of--the quiet
scuff of tired and still walking, pared

down, still thinking, gray-faced and no
sky, the whispered shush to shatter

the fragile violence of vision, the faltering
roar of unmet desire, if you swing it right

flex your knee, hands in your pockets, wise
or weary, you can grind the world that grinds,
shrieking, to halt

lxxxxix.

the hard buds line the branches,

late--the air melted, 

already, and rushes across

the concrete, through the avenues,

and circles by the steps,

this year, spring clutches close

watches gamely, but

huddles like the snow's still

down, firmly

waiting to release its hold

on itself, some wild logic

driven down from the mountains

to catch the catch, 

and turn it, clasping, flung 

over the basin