fairfax

--and no, you can't say,

even the trees escaped the winter unscathed

and my reflection hangs

shaggy and spindled

now, with the snow gone

the sun gleams on the peaks of my face, only

and no longer breaks itself on the ground

no more gleaming

--and I am not the man I used to be

with my jeans hanging in folds

what is to be done with returning sparrows?

what is to be done with the crocus

gnawing brightly at the dead leaves?

what--what

no, you place of lines

we slowly, in the cracked

mush of what you have torn

and ground and left for dead

at the margins

--each of us, pushes

each alone

--nah, the crocus can't walk

and the trees will flame and shake, again

but some of us--can rise for good

when the sky comes to the ground

again--

you--stiff where you lie

you will find, this pushing from the inside

by God--this blind pressure

will come to you also

and one step, ten thousand times

will grind you

back into dirt

... (xvi?)

raise this city, tonight

just now-- when the musky scent of day

still lingers, after she has left.

among the welter of lights

clogging the street

before the night comes to sunder things

from themselves,

and coyote's howl traces across the slopes

between the scattered lights-

before we must give the shadows their due

and let them eat out our legs for awhile.

spread across these streets, my friends

like the light on the clouds

and raise the sky up to the ground

flit

the sky as dark, and soft

as the down on the neck of a goose

and the wind the gentle

rustling of feathers

and as soft as the music

trickling through the door

and my thoughts too

flitting softly

across me

I was sitting

with the light drifting down

watching the mud on my boots

and fragments of you, all

lit, briefly, on the sill

next to me

wings twitching, and hopping

and rose lightly

gliding past the eaves

well you--you, all

clear skies to your passing

and may the night carry you softly

gap

and as always--

thirst returned sweetly

and I sipped a memory

inattentively

--lukewarm

it slipped across

the ache,

and fell away

--I am tired

only the thought

of heaviness

the pressure

of the nearby

--and the gap well-worn

to lean for once

and rest there

grounded

the thick, heaped

green

shed it's burden

one morning--when the storms

lit the sky

green, in the night

I saw the herons

winging in droves

over the lake--thawing

clouds come down

to brush the water

oh drifters--I saw the hawks

winging, high

and tight, driving

hard circles

above the freeway

oh hunters--and have seen

the sparrows fluttering

and the crows drifting

between the roofs

and hopping

along the pavement

--yes, I have seen them

hold the sky in their wings

I have seen them,

blurring into the air

when my eyes jelled

and went to water

in my skull

gone to water

my blood to boil

the ice to scratch

my veins

but I will be bone

I will cup the sky

in my head

someday--

I will cut the wind

in my skull

I will cut it to thunder

I will snarl it

into lightning

cracking

--someday

I will break the sky--

and stack it

high

venice

and stares from the Duomo

clutching his skin

--and I am no St. Jerome

when we rise

from the sticky darkness

and walk the blue

streets, catching glimpses

of the monster

from our worst dreams

in the window

and the masks stare

empty-eyed and glittering

from the shelves

surely the carnival twirls

as the people stride

clutching bags and bread

surely it twirls among them

in the wake

of our heavy-footed steps

skirl, you

skirl, I am polishing

myself sharp and planed

for my reflection

grinds me like gravel

tears me in every glance

I will be stone

soon, or perhaps

there is nothing to wear

away, but flesh

so be it--when I am bone

I will trawl the gutters

and corners

and feather myself with what I find

spark

my greedy grasping hands

fingers tingle

arms on fire

I tore at the air

--give me more, more!

you emptiness,

you formless

hanging motion--

give me--

I cup them now

low, in front of me

hold, in my hands

a moment

kindled, on bits

of ten thousand

things, passing

this flicker--

I cannot reach

further,

but the sparks fell

ground from the air

when I grabbed

emptily at the stars

mine--my stars!

mine, dying in the dark

my light this,

no cold-light

no walking, breathing

roiling constellations

the clouds hang on the moon

the smoke from distant battles

far above me