all of you
a shock of purple, power lines cut the dusk, in my throat sits an owl
A night train passes:
pictures of the dead are trembling
on the mantlepiece
The names of the dead
sinking deeper and deeper
into the red leaves
a stone angel points his hand
at the empty sky
scent of the silver-
and-pink-clawed possum in heat — all rhubarb-breath and unbelievable
udder — is as sharp as fuchsia
spokes of my oleander. I could put
my eye out looking.” —Anna Journey
I give her one
She says don’t forget I love you” —Robert Forster - I’ve Been Looking For Somebody
I dreamt I fell asleep on the verandah of my Stiltsville house to ocean song and was woken because I lived in the middle of the sunrise.
and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.
He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.” —In Memory of My Feelings by Frank O’Hara
I still recommend songs to you in my head, I wonder what songs I’m missing out on hearing. I write poems that aren’t about you.
in the dark
in the rainy dawn
Wine at dawn
on the Holy Book
—My knees are cold
After the shower
among the drenched roses,
The bird thrashing in the bath
Beautiful young girls running
up the library steps
With shorts on
If you will die for me,
I will die for you
and our graves will
be like two lovers washing
their clothes together
in a laundromat.
If you will bring the soap,
I will bring the bleach.
To see you naked is to remember the Earth,
the smooth Earth, clean of horses,
the Earth without reeds, pure form,
closed to the future, confine of silver.
To see you naked is to understand the desire
of rain that looks for the delicate waist,
or the fever of the broad-faced sea
that cannot find the light of its cheek.
Blood will ring through the bedrooms
and will come with flaming swords,
but you will not know the hiding places
of the violet or the heart of the toad.
Your womb is a struggle of roots.
Your lips are a dawn without contour.
Under the lukewarm roses of the bed
the dead men moan, awaiting their return.
I don’t think I miss you any less.
Your heart is a clenched fist. I’m punching for air.