... (xxvi).

the moon watches from the corner of her eye

the night opens like a door

and the hills stand high

in sharp outline,

behind her sloping gaze

--eyes you, waiting

if you'd walk in these halls, then

you must go forward also

quick--in gleaming outline

in flashes

let us walk

through the shadows falling

off the tile

sprawled across the pavement

leaning, grinning--against the stucco

with the city padding between us

you're a simple soul, eh?

that makes you lucky

--you don't know what you can't do

no dancer--you go running

trade skill for distance

since I'm having trouble denoting "forward"

I'm taking the graceless slapping

of your sneakers--as the echo of the walls

here--to delineate the shape

of the rooms that lie before me

... (xxv).

speak to yourself

in foreign accents--repeat your thoughts

in some other language, mumble

in the words you knew--before you knew words

to the ones who came before you,

leaning out from the shadows, spun round

behind the columns, the doorways

the first one who hid--behind a boulder

from what they could not see

whisper, what they whispered above

clouds of incense, through sheets

of smoke, choking out the shapes

of buildings, and street names

as they watched the fire feeding

--etched the script across

the film clouding their

eyes--sounded the letters

like beacons, in the hanging

fog, to sound the bulk

of the lies, the slope

of the memories

and when the wind

whipped free of the hillsides

it met them in cadence, but

when the air is still--it pays

to bow your head, to mumble

under the shade and shelter

of your eye-lids--it pays

to trace the figures small

man--I'd like

them to crowd round in tweed

with the buildings soaring

like ground-bound falcons

against the sky

man--I'd like

to touch hands, man

I'd like to clap shoulders

to walk through a crowd

and hear the voices

clasp my ears like fingers

on a forearm

man--I'd like

to stride across a green

like I owned it, to stomp

across a street, like the beat

of the cars, was echoing

in my legs, man--I'd like to say

I own this, and it owns me

dismal science

man--I would jam

a sword down my throat

elaborate on

my own blood gurgling

than hear the empty air

whistling in my teeth

than provide narration for

a world that exists only in outline

man--I will not be

nailed spread-eagle

by the cells of my skin

will not be knotted

woven--the swirling atoms

threading my flesh

with wire

nah--and I won't drink it

the fading flush, the

hungry rush--the empty liquor

of desire

when a scream is just

another kind of story

and a plea no more

than fluttering hands

then I'd choose silence

for my sake--combined with violence

and--on the whole--give over worry

for a place unable to calculate,

to compensate--to back with interest

to back at all--what it demands

beggars

beggars--the both of us

it is hard to sit here

in the corner

without you to light it

to stare up at the matte gray sky

through the bamboo

to hear the blank rush

of the cars in the hills, the wind

the world seems flatter

the night seems dead

without the warmth

of your company

without your voice

to add

depth to the dark

it is hard to see

the rich colors

without being able

to catch them

to give you--without you

to return them, brighter

remember when were starving?

--and hunger was a pleasure

it filled the world with desire

when did it become

lots and alleys--

trenches gouged into the earth

and things scattered

in pieces, across the ground

the cement cold and hard

the tall buildings

catch the dead sounds of the city

in their heights

Sitting on the curb, I saw you

at the intersection

while you were on the way

to yours

I looked up at you

and you glanced at me

--I can give you nothing

God damn your resilience

--our eyes rebounded

flung past each other

were lost

we dissolved

into the vastness of the street

winter

it's good to lie down empty--in the summer

the sky itself will come down to fill you

with Draco arching in dim outline

above you

--but I saw you in the winter

when I was already full

and dark cut across us

and we stood apart

each silent and solid

under the still, thundering

dome of the moon

and the words passed

between us

like a distant echo

--I hear laughter in the night

wild and jagged as the outline of the palms

I think I wish you're hearing

the murmuring of the leaves

if I must be alone when I'm open

I'd wish the soft rustling

the spice on the breeze,

drift in the corners of your soul

... (xxiv).

poetry is the shearing away

of the bone

tonight--

the wind blowing,

quick and dry

sheared away the years

all the dead

days, thick and bony

and hard

and I saw the sunlight

on the path

and the shadows specking

through the leaves

I saw the light thick like

water, when the air

was too heavy

to breathe

and I, caged by the trunks

mourned, silently

in an empty room

and slumped against

the sides, of my skull

--but this exposure

is a crack in the living

cement of the ceiling

and the light, lively

unliving, trickles

across my face