Monday, December 19, 2005

Wild Horses Of Fire*

The light
Thru the trees
This camera tracks

Their faces
The trees of
Their youth

My earth
Is virtuous
The capillary

The shot tracking
Their youth
Thru the trees

Light facing
A sky
Their bodies say


They who sing
Each other’s names
To marry the capillary
Contact of a star
Too close and bright

Too loaded by
Of days their names sing
Across vast pasture
Futures of sleeping stars

A sheep they slap
Presages let
Their ancestries shade the delight
Of parting in rain
In saying the name
Recall for me
How floes show forth


With noise in their week
Sex changes the pink
Sky's chime of light
Their blood like two
Titles beat

Blowing rings around gongs
The noise of coffin nails
Upon new hooves


Bloodletting a word
Sink from roofs
Beads in a netting
Of frank lace

Of our fortunate turns
Weeping is this collection

"The truth
may be sad,"
after all.

"We were searching
for ourselves
in each other."


Going by the roadside
With large hips
My star

Going by rain
Thru the years of these hills
To shepherd our deaths
Our lives need shepherding

Going by fire
By black fire
And swaying pages
And shadow
The door swings
Towards floes once past

In a courtyard
The distant
Hills of these years
The heads of babes
Almost touching
The good

Fallen from the sky
We arrive lately
From rain and wind wounds
To the bodies of
Our beloved
Documented by ice

Torch don't forget
A footstep
Don't forget to forget
What fire
Singularly veils


The corporeal
Hiding in our dress
Our dress of more
In our waking work
The camera's vanished
The blind so bedecked

So bejeweled
The corporeal
Our dress of more
Unripened cloaks
Veils, nights clock us
Shape tucks us in

The white unripening
Of groves long nights
Sex gone from the fact
That we are

That we are gone
And ambidexterous
Hiding in our dress
Garment unripened
By flickering rice


Bright bright travel
The face escapes
To tell the line, to tell this lie
To trade in visions
Signs of the bodily
Beaded pink,
Created black

The face escapes
This too is good
Travelling these hills
To emote a sound of whips
A lonesome sound at that

To tell the lie, to tellingly
This too is good
With cameras we work
Down to earth
I believe this music of the deaf
The fruits of the dead

Travelling these hills
To trade in visions
With cameras we work
To repeat is not
To reproduce
It is to remember to burn

*composed Spring 2004. Revised 12/19/05