"Daisuke des ne?
I gave my friend
"For myself I want nothing from you."
"You are wise in that. I never grant favors."
-Ozma of Oz by Frank Baum
"asked for nothing, expected nothing
no reason for coming except curiosity."
Walking out in the mind,
into the woods of Vermont
reminded me things have stood
longer than necessary,
a window seat in the sun
into emailing a stranger.
Is there danger in that, reaching out into the unknown?
I sink my heart
into an airborne stone,
find a bedstead below the Fatima Lady,
and Sadie in Vermont,
her old dog bones
Up the road from your Cabot home
I met a farmstead shrine to Maria.
Is it still there?
Flamenco of one brother, three.
One broke his heel
two threw off their shoes,
all spun round
a box drum.
Outside the dance,
the street tamps down
Should something happen,
someone always cleans up the mess.
The cormorant's frills made of rabbit tufts
enough white around the eyes to shoot
The blue gulf inside the bill,
now rich with
fish and blood.
Flood colonies with oil, spoil nests.
Tell the birds.
Should something happen,someone always cleans up the mess.
under metal rain.
so much pain.
are we at war again?
Should something happen,someone always cleans up the mess.
un cuenco roto
mi cuñado murió hoy
algo se ha derramado
alguien ha desaparecido
壊れたボウル 私の義理の兄は今日亡くなりました 何かがこぼれた 誰かが空になりました
Kowareta bōru watashi no giri no ani wa kyō nakunarimashita nanika ga koboreta darekaga sora ni narimashita
My brother-in-law died today
Someone is empty
if I read the numbers
if I plead with gods
if I take pills to sleep
if I despair
if I don't understand why this disease
furiously fights for him
if I cannot speak
if he grows weaker, then rebounds
if he lives through this
if he dies
if again and again
we'll have more
weeks up and down
if the grandchildren look at their great uncle
eyes wide and cry
as if their word for you,
might find him instead
if I cannot say dead
if I cannot say cured
if I have too many words
but never enough
蝉 Semi Cigarra الزيز alziz 매미 maemi cikade greier zikadak
蝉 Chán సికాడా Sikāḍā सिकाडा sikaada ሲካዳ sīkada
1. cicada disaaweshiinh+yag 2. cicada meminaabawijiisi+wag 3. cicada meminaabawijiisii+g
Dark roast, no milk.
Careful. Sorrow distracts, causes overfill, spillage.
This wake's within. We knew you knew not to come, cried alone,
but wouldn't hide what died among the stones.
Conversations after funerals, measured by mug size. Black water reflects another lie:
Red ink and spilt milk
on a shirt of blue.
Coups are a bit like death. They wipe out everything.
The tree in the wood
but did it?
All we know is supposed.
On a warm day, the birds sing, bring in ten o'clock,
summoned, assembled, inflamed .
Precipitation is humidity, wind, mixes
with skin, and water,
Are we to remain silent?
The Connellsville Seam is exhausted.
Nearly pure soft coal,
stolen from the earth,
births steel, watched water
wash away Johnstown.
Procurator of San Marco,
the second most prestigious life appointment in the Republic of Venice,
gazes into a dark interior, away from the blue sky above a blue sea.
Johnstown's brown drowning,
near dark miners digging shoals of coal.
Save the town, if we can keep it. No.
Lake's gone, along with the fish.
Sense of debt to the dead?
Frick bought Tintoretto instead.
Dreaming of blue faces underwater,her brothers drowning,
Karolina Olsson of Oknö
slept for 32 years and 42 days,
drank daily 2 glasses of sweetened milk.
In America, she might have been found drowned too.
those who've crossed from one country to another,
in slave ships, steerage.
Sometimes, it spits us out,
shares us with fish.
Not so rare a dish for fish,
before or after arrival,
the slave, the immigrant.
The noon siren sounds.
Warm flats smell of cooking.
From the window, rough waves
and a tree, split in two.
Beyond the breakwater,
unega means white in Cherokee
who works around the corner
lurks among the elderberry
ornery old bat
illness has a face
small and delicate
but a tall body
but then it lurches
until you float inside
dark and afraid
The Uffizi is free online.
So too the Tate.
Isn't that great?
From the Arno, Thames
I've buckles plucked from the muck.
Skill and luck -
My people -
Fish paste and planes are temporal; I've found them in the
Satipatthāna Sutta: under Impermanence,
with expiration dates.
This refrain arises 13 different times in the sutra -
contemplate the arising
the passing away
and both the arising and the passing away.
The sound of
the sutra is a passenger plane, drowsy,
(nearly empty, masked, full rows for each solitary)
crossing lakes, mountains, rivers, fens,
then ballenas, blind creeks, karst and kettles,
settling into descent, touching salt water.
where Kastrup and Chek Lap Kok are building islands,
reclaiming strands - new Doggerlands.
Land arising doesn't last.
Nothing does, and not even that!
So don't pass, in either place, on fish paste.
It ought to be bought
duty free, in
Kastrup and Chek Lap Kok.
Then settle in, clock arrivals, departures.
Who here, there, will start a new life, flee?
The sutra seas are full of jellyfish, not whales.
Birds land on shale beaches to fish estuaries.
I eat fish paste and watch,
from a room with a sutra in Amager, looking north -
flatlands, flat skies, birches,
perches for cormorants and crows.
Chóu sāan's sutra is rising like a low star,
faraway, over books and buildings
and broken lives.
I've saved nothing but poems.
So many jellyfish!
Near Amager, sinks an old carcass of a whale,
stale stink when the wind blows right.
The fish paste I like comes in a tube,
star-shaped trails of roe.
I've no bread for it, or for the prisoners of
politics and ventilators.
Even Kastrup's caught it, that feeling of
intubation, where both the arising and the passing away take
arising and passing away
into one distance, together.
Un poco y no bien, you said.
So why go, I asked,
when you know
the quarry killed Alan,
stunned him with a stone,
ate him whole.
And what about that other one,
river snags snatched him,
C'mon, you said.
And I said No.
taught us terror,
pulling us under
in pools and small lakes.
We knew muck slipped, leechy
criks, carried sticks and
matches, pockets of salt.
Come early spring, we knew not to wade streams.
Quarry, river, pool, slick streams, these waters we knew, were wary of.
We hadn't yet met immensity.
Riptides, vortices, sudden rogues?
Flash floods, tidal surges, tsunamis?
Waters scaled larger were too far away to fear.
Some took chances in the waters here,
gave little thought to cost.
Odds with small water, a few always lost.
One breath, two. I cannot see you,
sloughed soles, blood clots.
Knots in trees, these,
your exhalations, and irregular.
boughs, the branches of your fruit trees.
Your garden's lemons, crushed.
Sweet-sour runnels from them
spill into, fill us.
Troughs inside our hearts
trench, pool into you.
masked family members
vigil in the parking lot
outside your room.
I can't be there to pray with them
so I play hymns to Mary.
Oh, Mother of Stars!
How yellow bright our love for him!
things with wings
voices stolen from turtles
brackish water of park puddles
poor vectors of disease
pleased with ourselves
with our shelves, cases, drawers
stuffed with feathers
not what they are
but we -
lack of pluck
occur to me
of crested cormorants
none seen this year
I hear was found in the arugula
higher, colder than the lakes
an ulu of a moon
inches of it
and the black river
not as black as
at the edges of this lamp