Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Isma'il ibn Ali al-Sadiq

Saturday Night

I suppose I'm having
another breakdown, with
such pills on the vanity,
by mouth daily as 1 mg

clonazepam in wont of
other apartments and vistas
to transform into busy
traffic circles and exits

from downtown matinees
out into impossible landscapes
one can barely spell
the absence of. I don't want

to be rescued from anything
vacant that comes to
hand, beyond feeling the deep
pain bereft of light sinew

wanting, as leaves me to
impossibly suspended dementia
and notes lost on the way
from Myra to Bari to Göttingen.


A Warm Wind from the South

She is at the top of
the sky: The child is known
to be on the other side
of the earth. The sun is

not visible until the parting
of lips where the darkness
of the forest falls away
(and you're supposed to be

talking about 'weather'
another said, but that's
a simple switch-back
and caution anyway is always

inevitable in her circuitry
just as the gender of
anyone remains unknown
until they're halfway out,

just where the moon is
up, to truth, and she is
under its effort where
fibers stretch the limits

between heaven and earth's
clear labor, no concept but
the sweet rush of being
out and final, here

right where I'm walking,
the night air an issue
not so much of sucking
the substance from

a mother's breasts, but
that she might blow first
breaths across its contingent
and now nameless nipples.


No comments:

Post a Comment