out, bumping into another sadly
as they hoarsely cry
the full name
of some only friend
The Weeping
He
has
considered weeping, only he can't even bring himself to
take a stab at it. He just can't cry— it is terrible to cry
when you're by yourself, because what then?
Nothing is solved,
nobody comes;
even solitary children understand. This
apparent respite, apparent quenching
of the need to be befriended
might (much like love in later years) leave you
lonelier than when you were merely alone?
Untitled
The unanswering cold, like a stepfather to a silent child
And the light if that's what it is
The steplight
No—
the light that's always leaving
The Family's Windy Summer Night
The moon on her shoulder
like skin—
brightest and nightest desire.
Her eyes, unknown to him,
wide open. Dark
for dark's sake, he recalls:
the fallacy still
unavoidable.
Child,
the glass of sleep
unasked for and withheld.
The Leaves
I have been sitting here
all of the past
hour very sleepily watching the wind
as it blows through the black leaves
surrounding the house
in absolute silence, the leaves
swarming like huge moths' wings
in a futile but tireless attempt
to come through the windows. I am so tired,
I don't understand it:
I can barely keep my eyelids open,
barely remain sitting upright.
I have been by myself
far too long watching the wind
blow through the black-green leaves.
It has been so long
since anyone has called;
I can't remember the last time
I heard the doorbell ring.
And even if it did,
what difference would it make.
I don't detect the vaguest desire
to get up and answer the door,
to see another face. No,
I could quite easily remain here
like somebody pleasantly lapsing
into deep sleep, a sleep so profound
no phone or alarm clock or doorbell
could ever reach its lightless depths.
I really have to rouse myself, maybe
even call up a friend I have missed;
or go for a walk in my neighborhood's
shady decrepitude (where do they go
when August comes, where
do they all disappear to) …
And I fully intend to, I certainly should—
just give me a minute or two,
I am so incredibly weary
and I don't know why. I think
these leaves are wishing me
asleep.
That must be what it is.
I must have left a window open.
I can hear them all at once—
they've gotten in somehow
and now
they are covering my body. My face,
they are covering my face;
and I have passed the point
where I might have lifted a hand
to brush them away,
if I'd wished to.
I am drowning, I think:
I have been drowning
now for a number of years,
and I have had the strangest dream.
Ending
It's one of those evenings
we all know
from somewhere. It might be
the last summery day—
you feel called on to leave what you're doing
and go for a walk by yourself.
Your few vacant streets are the world.
And you might be a six-year-old child
who's finally been allowed
by his elders to enter a game
of hide-and-seek in progress.
It's getting darker fast,
and he's not supposed to be out;
but he gleefully runs off, concealing himself
with his back to a tree
that sways high overhead
among the first couple of stars.
He keeps dead still, barely breathing for pleasure,
long after they have all left.
The Mailman
From the third-floor window
you watch the mailman's slow progress
through the blowing snow.
As he goes from door to door
he might be searching
for a room to rent,
unsure of the address,
which he keeps stopping to check
in the outdated and now
obliterated clipping
he holds, between thickly gloved fingers,
close to his eyes
in a hunched and abruptly simian posture that makes you turn away, quickly switching off the light.
Twelve Camellia Texts
The thought of the camellia unfolds
*
The camellia you placed in the mirror
One of those that chooses you
nights
when you can't sleep
On the cool floor at your feet
lies one that fell
unnoticed the moment you entered
like a shooting star …
Nights when you look up afraid all at once
Anything can happen here
Every star in the sky may be
as they hoarsely cry
the full name
of some only friend
The Weeping
He
has
considered weeping, only he can't even bring himself to
take a stab at it. He just can't cry— it is terrible to cry
when you're by yourself, because what then?
Nothing is solved,
nobody comes;
even solitary children understand. This
apparent respite, apparent quenching
of the need to be befriended
might (much like love in later years) leave you
lonelier than when you were merely alone?
Untitled
The unanswering cold, like a stepfather to a silent child
And the light if that's what it is
The steplight
No—
the light that's always leaving
The Family's Windy Summer Night
The moon on her shoulder
like skin—
brightest and nightest desire.
Her eyes, unknown to him,
wide open. Dark
for dark's sake, he recalls:
the fallacy still
unavoidable.
Child,
the glass of sleep
unasked for and withheld.
The Leaves
I have been sitting here
all of the past
hour very sleepily watching the wind
as it blows through the black leaves
surrounding the house
in absolute silence, the leaves
swarming like huge moths' wings
in a futile but tireless attempt
to come through the windows. I am so tired,
I don't understand it:
I can barely keep my eyelids open,
barely remain sitting upright.
I have been by myself
far too long watching the wind
blow through the black-green leaves.
It has been so long
since anyone has called;
I can't remember the last time
I heard the doorbell ring.
And even if it did,
what difference would it make.
I don't detect the vaguest desire
to get up and answer the door,
to see another face. No,
I could quite easily remain here
like somebody pleasantly lapsing
into deep sleep, a sleep so profound
no phone or alarm clock or doorbell
could ever reach its lightless depths.
I really have to rouse myself, maybe
even call up a friend I have missed;
or go for a walk in my neighborhood's
shady decrepitude (where do they go
when August comes, where
do they all disappear to) …
And I fully intend to, I certainly should—
just give me a minute or two,
I am so incredibly weary
and I don't know why. I think
these leaves are wishing me
asleep.
That must be what it is.
I must have left a window open.
I can hear them all at once—
they've gotten in somehow
and now
they are covering my body. My face,
they are covering my face;
and I have passed the point
where I might have lifted a hand
to brush them away,
if I'd wished to.
I am drowning, I think:
I have been drowning
now for a number of years,
and I have had the strangest dream.
Ending
It's one of those evenings
we all know
from somewhere. It might be
the last summery day—
you feel called on to leave what you're doing
and go for a walk by yourself.
Your few vacant streets are the world.
And you might be a six-year-old child
who's finally been allowed
by his elders to enter a game
of hide-and-seek in progress.
It's getting darker fast,
and he's not supposed to be out;
but he gleefully runs off, concealing himself
with his back to a tree
that sways high overhead
among the first couple of stars.
He keeps dead still, barely breathing for pleasure,
long after they have all left.
The Mailman
From the third-floor window
you watch the mailman's slow progress
through the blowing snow.
As he goes from door to door
he might be searching
for a room to rent,
unsure of the address,
which he keeps stopping to check
in the outdated and now
obliterated clipping
he holds, between thickly gloved fingers,
close to his eyes
in a hunched and abruptly simian posture that makes you turn away, quickly switching off the light.
Twelve Camellia Texts
The thought of the camellia unfolds
*
The camellia you placed in the mirror
One of those that chooses you
nights
when you can't sleep
On the cool floor at your feet
lies one that fell
unnoticed the moment you entered
like a shooting star …
Nights when you look up afraid all at once
Anything can happen here
Every star in the sky may be
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