An antelope in

mid-leap:

the heart.

All day, the men that fails to bring coyotes
out of storm. By marsh-mires, in a dream—

or not in a dream but in a wet, dream
slow reality: soldiers poise, in rows,

heavy-legged as if with hesitance of failure
of what happens—or is about to. Overhead, thunder

and lightning. Do the soldiers find the lightning,
wrapped in yellow, intimidating? By the shore,

waves grow as though they are wet,
blue answers of Babylon’s tower
and not just waves,

the harbor rocking like the one abandoned solider
—come clarity, come black.

I name them as though they are stars—

Zeus, Pegasus, Orion—I am in love lipsticked onto their forehead

 

in thick, plum letters. Their names

 

are carved into wood: aspen and birch, bark peeled

off to give space to Bill and Molly

 

Forever and this wind, all around,

 

in our shirt, filling, emptying

the space, this heart brown but not red through

 

which an arrow crosses. By the trees,

 

this morning, no raccoons, no peacock

wing to flail as against a ghost

 

force, no ants, only the two teenagers in love,

 

sharing lips, leaning nude

but just-showered against the other, against the trees . . .

 

It was not like any dream: here no fence or barb-wire
allows for the jumping of the sheep I never counted:

one, two, three sheep, the usual story. Here the cattails
bend, unbend, at this lean hour. It means nothing but

the wind shuffles them, in the heat it is strong. In the
dream, there is a lake I call Lake Como of seaweed—

yes, it’s that much seaweed—and Lake Where Horses
Enters The Sea. One after another, as though sheep

in another dream, in lines they come. I can count them,
easily: one, two, three horses, not the usual story.

If dreams are messages, do I need to clean—what—
body? my hands? I have not murdered, nor betrayed,

nor loosened, from the dying crows, the dying lambs,
their limbs.

It was not like any dream: here no fence or barb-wire
allows for the jumping of the sheep I never counted:
one, two, three sheep, the usual story.

¤

I take a step away from the sycamore as if, reluctantly,
with the reluctance of a father leaving his children,
I let a child lie in a crib across the Nile.

¤

If I lay my body upon
yours, if you allow me, if we fill each other
like bees-in-honeycomb, we become a kind of sashay:
a sashay like that of the sea and the horse: here,
the horse that enters, and the sea that keeps it,
moans Enter me, and I’ll assist. The cattails bend,
unbend, at this lean hour. It means nothing but the wind is
strong,

¤

So that each is a feather of
a peacock wing: the bodies laying sprawled
on the Palestina ground.

¤

Here is the abandoned fiddle, here the spinner
from once the women spun wool, together, by dimmet,
by dawn, here is the silence of the rooster without voice

¤

The crows come to smoke at dawn.
Today, in flocks, herons pass
as they would over anything.

¤

Look: the trees are not themselves today: the
boughs / the needles / the cons do not bend
to slap me. Cattails, in lake Como of seaweed:
of rainbowed fish and blue colour
that is not really blue.

Look: the trees are not themselves today: the
boughs / the needles / the cons do not bend
to slap me. Cattails, in lake Como of seaweed:
of rainbowed fish and blue colour
that is not really blue. I know that. The lake
looks like thatthat blue thistlebecause of
the wavelength of the reflecting light. It is not
because of the sky or the Greek Gods who,
in ancient times, drank from chalices andfed
cupped, loosened to the earth the white
wine we know, have known, all this time,
as rain and more rain, that water we drink
from taps the way bees drink nectar.
We have known andhave imagined,
have walked these grounds, have plowed,
have raked the fields with hands as if tokens
of holding, not loosing as, through my palm,
the earth retreats, slips clean, like sand,
from what tethers. The slipping away
through my fingers is not intentional,
like the slipping away of the soul isn’t.
The tethered soul was never tethered:
was caught only by the bodies now buried,
meaning nothing but we have put them here
or they are too weak to rise. This is under-
standable. This is not: the soul as the body,
the soul as what tethers it.

The crows come to smoke at dawn, not like
any swan but like the swan by the pond whose wings unfold as to
flap away from where the timbers are stained,
burried beneath ashes. The ashes are not really black:
they are blackened like the crows I imagine at
the creation of time were made soothed by the Greek
Gods who, also, cupped their liquid to the earth
(as we know as rivers now, as seas) and moulded the earth
to trees / to mountains as they do with sand by
the beach, the small children. Was this ever a town
to which the ploughers plowed the fields, raked
the rows by tomato shrubs, and the woman did their
daily bidding, they who were the cookers, the
spinners of garn (of wool) for cloths, and the men
the blacksmiths that hammered to strength the
weapons (as in the stories we know all too well:
swords, shields, a few men, a battle), the children
like tended lambs . . . Today, in flocks, herons pass
as they would over anything. The village is ash and
smoke, a beaten warrior in a war that does not end,
does not seem to. Recall, the boars must have left
this place a long time ago; the ravens, the crows,
as to any dying place, have come to roost. Here is
the abandoned fiddle, here the spinner from once
the women spun wool, together, by dusk, by dawn,
here is the silence of the rooster without voice:

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