POEM

Cat pauses when the hand,       —a complexion
entwined with savored attention,       —reaches
to twist the door-knob of the closed door,
longing towards only & of every ratio,
sickly yellowed resolutions, returning
to the original satisfaction of offering my voice
to the wall, presuming that walls record voices,
voices of animals, ancient soundscapes
(silent bootlegs, but listen closely, soft as cotton)—
hands swipe thereupon across the chilled wall—
the horizon is the wall facing me—
behind me, I ask whether the clock wakes
with the sun’s peacock’d possessedness
that is amassed, finely opened.  

Æthiop’s pathos. Pleural Space.  Hook it to my veins.

Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante
participates in this thought, thieves what remains,
infinite obscurities rush to bombard me
where the crane’s domain tears the air.
Starry-eyed in the core, fomented vitium durations,
a kind of richness that my ears conceive, milder by manner.

What you must never do is remove
the optimistic Garden from the blackness
of hopelessness; the seeds will dissolve into your youth’s mouth,
your prime-era fountains       —O, allow your All
to receive the Lips of Northward Love!—
it takes one kiss to confirm manifested Mercury-rising,
which, by degree, may indulge the moist habitations
of fertile transmission of bone-dry, yet blessed sands.

The cat, native of carpet or shining hardwood,
is our example of loyalty, or like this poem
that could brace the graceful frame of a swan’s neck.