Friday, June 1, 2012

Skip Fox

Floral Risers

steps at spring's banquet, headful onto
summer's dias, commence then long  
advance beyond beginning's slumber
                             (wakenings upon wakenings . . .
        flowers upon flowers . . .
in anticipation, sky's lost blue in stuttering
darkness, negative beneath eye's light where
mind wonders, coldly, Is this all? Was there never
only always cause, origins stripped like petals
of a lily who would counsel clouds to rain, that earth
be brought to its fulfillment, dawn not lost in desolation's
day? This same white valley claims a recognition
of mortality might delicately shade our eyes amid
the blare and jostle of an actual street.
       A memorable fancy–
How angels filled the sky adrift or falling or
streaming outward to morning's clarion
flare–wherefrom a spirit, thus aroused, called
out, etc., All is accomplished where I go
forth, Horses of the charnel house swim leagues
through dream into abattoirs of light. They are
of the gods (and so forth). The lively apple. The willsome
nut. Or storm risers on the heels of avarice, rapacious
greed, penury of spirit, even irony wears its face, thus
leeches thru boundaries, soaking gardens to suck dry
the roots of muthos, entire academies addressed to
degradation of self and self's deep share, to light's
occlusion, and to error . . .

in the face of which
only flowers
      (dawn just now!

a melody strung from spring's potentia, living at our furthest edge
                                                       –in air                   just the other side of skin–
thence urged into summer through sweet flesh, to core, and lower, taproot
boring earth, chthonic pull head downward in fullness search
brought upward forth            and into fruit         the which
                               in autumn is termed purpose
                                                                              if only
     that the song be once again renewed         after
a meditative interlude           (or where it is harsh, such soft steps of several color cross
               field            newly green                awake in lavender light        beneath sky
of ciel, etc.,                                        shall give us certain cause that we rejoice
    at end of such a winter                                         sweet stakes in all death's heart


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