Vesper, Vigil, Vapor
Get away from city lights so that you might look me
in the eyes & know. Nights you couldn’t bring yourself
to go home. And the unforgiving mornings.
Imagine seeing each face in the world, simultaneously, as gods
must. Close to gold suburbia, dust flares up.
Where I am driven is cool & dense as petal. Grip my neck.
In me, not the black
bears ransacking blue
berry bushes, but
them, among bramble,
hobbled branches stripped
of their sapphires.
I play violin
with my tongue. Author
of fragments, you your-
self are fragment. Red
smear of a cloak intact,
Cage inside the bird.
Cold, when you enter.
When do we cease being disaster music,
living fir & needles & are just ourselves again?
In our mind, you are the idea of an idea, a bowerbird’s
nest. Prints in snow, leading nowhere. Nectar & mud.
Our cones no more can disentwine
language from voice, noise from sound, than a pebble.
Yours: our favorite shelter, dropped, as if from the sky.
We thirst for winter, suckle the sun’s fingertips taking
into our cells the divine ultraviolet wine that it is.
Mist mints the lawn. I
won’t touch you. Your ghost
dwells inside me; my thin walls,
alive & crawling
membranes of a hive.
Come back to bed. When
you light a fire,
honey seeps from my
boards like quagmire.
Wrist-deep in water. You
look out the window onto wild-
flower freckled grass.
Like a mirage or indigo smoke, the bear rises,
a great shadow, three, four, eight, nine feet tall.
Glass shatters, then burning.
Drifting from room to room,
buttercup held beneath your chin,
bittersweet glows on your lips.
In the vague moments when you awake
I’ll slip from you like a silk
scarf pinched away by a thorn in a purple
woods. To eat a bee you must first catch
a bee, you’ll think, & wherever I
am from now on is where I should be.
You’ll cut your finger
picking up the shards
& its smallness, like a gasp,
will contain you in its immediacy.
Movement in the grass.
A jar & its clinquant flies
an asp circles.