Monday, January 14, 2013

Icaru saxo plummed

nothing concealed
but no misery in the climber
the foot in the foreground
gripping a stone like a hand
the heel the palm
and the fingers mitten
a radical angle
twists our view
we look down
but the edges are masked
and there in the heights
is the old dog
his head poked out from
a turtle's shell like a note
every awl obeys
rise sunset set sunrise
the sea shellsurmised
what enormous kaleidoscopic bodies do we send
all made of peach pearl shell
their heavy clanking brows
where birds spill out as foam
and snow flows around the lights
where the summer gardens snooze
we look down
the climber moves through arches
and in every window of the great horn
some nodding contented meddler
in part at once to the golden drone
there is bliss while approaching

hours close on dew
we look through
the stage emerge
from wild geometry
sonorous the high halls
where their frail mouths