Monday, January 27, 2014

drafts of unfinished poems


I know the alphabet of loss is like a man
who sees a woodblock print
each time he looks at a tree
whose yardstick measures all the span
between his gaze and its reality

his books are filled with what he holds
between his gaze and what its leaf forsakes
beside a shrine where waters lapse to pray
his ego may not vacate the years enough
the distance that only the foreswear hears

can I detain the ruins a little with my life
that toad whose aftervintage pages vanish
laden with update escapes my anon descends
flopsteps where I stand sneezing into a crown



Maybe it's the blueprints
Which the sky must use
To build another house
To move into since

It must leave from here,
Leave its first home here
For a second residence
Without parents,

Because parents fall
With the sunset each day,
They abandon us all

Again and again to
Night, or some bright new
Domicile.  We cannot stay.