icarus

A man with sunstroke is flying
a twin-engine Cessna
over Lake Michigan.

The staler the air in the cockpit grows,
the more positive he is that he sees
St. Peter, walking

across the face of the water,
trolling for perch.
The last coherent thought he has

before being claimed by the water
is of Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly,
singing “Moon River”

on a fire escape. The last thing
he hears the black box
say is cerulean.



melancholia is a collective noun

There could be hothouses filled with orchids, or a copse
of hard rime-coated trees, or drops
of grey wax in a bowl of water. Or, there could be
nothing after this.

This is the first stage of recovery—
irises the color of wet ashes,
mouth filled with pomegranate seeds
instead of teeth.

At one time we were flowers (at one time, everyone
was flowers), inflorescence on a dogwood tree;
I am an archipelago of splinters, just below the surface,
waiting patiently—

Wrens haunt the cherry trees, clamorously chirping
like Saint Stephen was hiding
underneath, dropping stones and pits
on unwary passers-by.

And Saint Denis, of the lachrymose silences,
carries his head with him for all eternity,
artists never quite agreeing
where his halo should go.


watermark

Right now I feel so goddamn rock-and-roll—
like a grinning

Keith Richards death’s-head.

You can see my watermark if you hold me to the light.

The brain needs oxygen. The humors need war
and rumors of war,

and myths about resurrections,

songs about car crashes half remembered
from a fevered dream—

I woke up cleaning gravel from the strawberry
on my knee.

(sing louder now)


Copyright the author(s) ©2007–2012