Tuesday, October 14, 2014


drape the lake as a bell where
the injury of good yorick must hale
we come over a small ridge as deer
or boys or camera and peer down
into the cat reeds rushes some how
pan now dug out the reed log whole boat note

carefully guard the round empty
form in the air alas
iron rain drops are too much
so the bell there never rings

happy to be grim
bight rictus whose smile is a ringer
for letters laid heir and to remember this
person who was an artist or a sculpture
or a fetish or a warrior or a mother
swimming in the grass

striped catfish as big as leopard
one dog in the camp confusedly arranging
its blanket for awhile
the poem as on a sheet of theft or pain
the garden rain

hovering bell
for wren porch
short wide round
opal fissure