Who in night hath conjured up the
form of fallen bird,
its breast asunder?
the shot hath broke its heart.

oh poor bird, rest not thy tattered wing
or feathers wont to slumber deep;
cease not thy song or all shall seek
the throes of silent sleep!

if for every bird
a breast; for every breast a heart

if for every heart a leaden ball
then why do flocks turn south
and brave the noisome guns,
their breasts thrown bare to all?

simply this: that every bird
whose heart hath burst
is born to flight,
and grows to song;
it knows no fall.

leaping hearts still like the break of day;
ne’er ceasing shine of ichor spilt again
upon the dewy purple skies above.
it flashes quickly, burns with fiery tongues.

the caustic fluid formed an orb of gold,
an ever-watchful eye upon the time.
they scorched the earth and called it holy day:
it dripped with warming wine to slow the mind.

(October 1999)

there are spaces entirely undusted

where the
casks age
where the
dogs dream
where the
cheese stands

alone.

1. i am Heliotrope,
   face to the sun.
2. when You smile,
   i feel like falling down.
3. i am Waterlily,
   formless.
4. You are Ripple,
   quietly disturbing.
5. i am many stones;
   we sit.
6. we are aphelion,
   and cold.
7. You are Helios,
   riding the sun.
8. we are tall constructs,
   drawn shadows.
9. when You smile,
   we all fall down.

riseth he, from distemp’rate mantle of earth;
long slumbered in crust of binding rime.
he wakes with fury, at once rapturous and weak,
biding his time.

riseth he, asphodel, vernal and lusting, thus
with such passion he unfolds.
with such a bleeding spectrum shineth he,
a body of broken celestia and further ruin’d strata;
riseth he through the wounds of humus, to the lure
of tow’ring laburnum hung heavily with venom.

Riseth He, Asphodel! in darkened gardens
thus he spirals
upward toward his indentured sun
in a path of coal-red asters.
all forget his beauty in the threnody of his breath!
the breadth of his form!
…why then, should we think it queer
that he is heralded by storms?