Reading so many beautiful poems of gratitude and thanks-giving this week, I wanted to share this, from my last book, Crazing:



The storm drives all ashore—thrown stick with dogteeth, twig of twisted pine,

thumbnail jellyfish with dark sails fallen, torn kelp, fouled ballast, soapy olivine foam.

Everyone here has the same story.

We are blown here out of sight of ourselves, staggering and dismayed.

Yet we are perfect — without ladder or pyramid, pinnacle or pietà

perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect—
as one would say this, this, this, this

seeing, in this dire wind, what there is to worship.

The White Queen

The White Queen

Comes the White Queen worrying
and hurrying to keep up and losing
her hairpins. Mind pieces slip
out of their sockets.

Because it is all held together
with hairpins —
the old kind, meant to be invisible?

And they were invisible.
I didn’t know they were there holding my mind together
until I started
to lose it.

Someone whose name I should remember
talks of the sweet dishevelment of love,
but this dishevelment is not sweet.

Or perhaps I am wrong,
perhaps I should

no, could, because one should speak
only in possibilities not rules

but where was I

I could perhaps experience
this dishevelment as sweet —
this mental coming apart

or opening up, which is a more
appealing concept —
the mind dropping hairpins
not in the process of falling
in chunks

but of opening up.
Light through the cracks.

So this dropping
off of things — of memory,
cleverness, concentration —

perhaps is not matter for grief
but sign of expansion.

If poetry cannot be made,
perhaps it will come in
as a gift.

Joy creating everything,
even this.

Even the White Queen,
silly and confused and showering
silver hairpins
so beautiful
and full of light.

Myopia in the Afternoon

Myopia in the Afternoon

What landscape is this? My flesh curving
over your bones, pectoral swell
under my cheek, darkness of tangled fur,
and beyond that, the wet

angled branch of a tree, and beyond that,
something white, something pale blue.
Call it tree and window,
sky and snow.

But what this is, so close at hand, I cannot say.
This landscape of pleasure, where we fit together
this way, that way, it seems is nothing
I know, knew, can know –

only the rise and fall of breath,
the slow shifting of light on flesh,
and what has been, and what will come to be,
and here between them,

Fat Time

Fat Time
Under purest ultramarine the raised
goblets of trees overrun with gold.
We should be reeling drunk and portly as groundhogs
through these windfalls of russet, citron, bronze, chartreuse.

Everywhere color pools like butter, like oil of ripe nuts,
like piles of oranges under a striped tent.

Oh, let us be greedy of eyeball,
pigs scuffling in this gorgeous swill!

Let us cud this day
and spend the winter ruminant.

Let us write fat poems, and be careless.

Let us go bumbling about in wonder, legs
coated with goldenrod and smelling of acorns.

Let us be unctuous with scarlet and marigold,
larder them here, behind our foreheads
to glow in the brain’s lamps
in the time of need.

Each tree a sun!
Let us throw away caution,
emblazon our retinas
with the flare and flame of it

so that in the unleavened winter
this vermilion spill, this skyfall,
these oils of tangerine, smears of ochre and maroon

will heat a spare poem, dazzle the eye’s window,
feed us like holy deer on the blank canvas of snow.

Bless You, Father Walt

Bless You, Father Walt

for lying stripped and singing
in the floes and fallows of your own body.
For granting us land-rights to your shaggy unkempt tongue
where through long syllables of scarlet leaves
we ride shanks-mare, drunk on the public road again.

Oh, bless me, Father Walt!
Lend me your large boots to caper and hoot at dusk,
make me shameless and grandiose, tender and foolish and brave.
Bless this false coin I use, stained as tinker’s ware –
turn it to tigers resting in the shadows of my mouth.