CAVE

CAVE

stuff us back
in that cave

pack us tight as
fans at football
layer upon layer like
sild sardines

and then
we can watch
the shadows

become
our shadows

sacrifice substance for
promise of comfort
as the
walls

(on which our
spirit totems did run, did move)

draw us
inwards, to life and
mind of stone again

all that remained
of the memory of towering
structures
that rose to embrace, the Moon
and stars and Sun

gone

Advertisements

AFTERWARDS

AFTERWARDS

afterwards
after the
dust had settled

just (like in On
the Beach) a
wind whispering
a tapping
of a
dead branch
(all branches
dead) seen
as some
sort of message system
some kind
of automatic writing

and it is the same
with the stars in space
whose voices
just the
crackling of their fire

sometimes (if time means anything
in infinite curvature
afterglow of
explosion,
singular pressure
of nuclear
fuel decay)

we can only surmise
from beyond
their graves

these whispers

gather close
listen for

my voice

though faint, though strong, through
strange, though clear

might be thing
at random, thing
after
the event

scarcely real

ON SEEING YOUR POEM IN PARIS REVIEW

ON SEEING YOUR POEM
IN PARIS REVIEW

our poetry
is so different
yours and mine

for one, your range, tonal range
from Trump cap screaming to
faded-text ancient quiet

exceeds anything I
am capable of, all
that I may imagine

multi-
dimensional to my
monotone

every shade of morning to
evening, storm
to drizzle gray

to my
finger on
the pulse of

frenetic black
and white

INCONGRUITY

INCONGRUITY

we laughed at
the pictures

red cultural guard
shaking their little mao books
against the storm

quick read
slow
study

and where does that leave us
brandishing Swift and Orwell
against the mouthpiece
of supreme idiocy

the caged birds
speaking stars
rattling their bars
so few of us
left to see

share
the incongruity