Terroir

They have given us our lovely flavor.
The umami of our unwashed limbs
has risen through the bedrock of themselves,
the native soil and weather
they carried in their ceaseless movement.
What trace dye might show
the westward swaths, the starting and stopping,
the plume of blood, ending here.

And we find, though vanished, untraceable
their mute weight begins to bend us;
they disturb us with suggestions.
They do not come in dreams
or dressed as we might know them,
but in static, in distracted air
in the narrow stillness before sleep,
or as we sit with hot tea and blanket
and the doorbell rings;
and ignoring possible danger we open the door.
The peephole useless where three ears of corn
hang to recall past harvests,
so all that can be seen
are yellow teeth, large but amiable.
And just as we look the street door closes.
We glimpse through the glass
the back of someone who may have had
a message, or not. That’s how it often is.

But sometimes clearly, as today,
in the first snow becoming mysteriously visible
more than silent, silence incarnate,
a shifting scrim framing beyond this window
Finland a century gone
a stark farm yard and the girl
not yet my grandmother
who has left school after eight years
with fifty years of poetry in her head
and now must milk the cows whose breathing
steams the cowshed windows white.
Where she steps the mud is not quite hard.
A different stillness stops her, lifts her eyes
to the wide pale sky; she waits
and slow observable flakes
like fish scales scattered by the blade,
like salt froth on a high cold sea,
like feathers,
like fragments of white pages,
whirl one by one and drift and touch
the roof, her upturned face, the freezing earth.

Learning to fall

Take the high wire;
do not think of falling;
from the beginning, eyes forward,
do not look down.

The first step is the bridge to the next,
is the wing raised and spread
over all the moments of the act
without stop or thought,
a reel cast above the water,
skimming, weighted, alighting.

But hesitate and the foot
grows heavy. You must fall then.
Become the wing
outspread in air,
the crumpled paper smoothed
between two palms
to a creased sheet,
arms open, legs adrift,
a dry leaf sailing.
Abandon the vertical
and the net will not fail you.

Still life

The whiteness of a white plate
on a white cloth,
subtle ironstone and matte linen even more subtle;
the grass green shading to red of the beetle’s back
and the black leg feathery, tentative, alive,
stopped on the simple table

where petals of half-blown roses have come to rest,
shallow cups, delicately creased,
and the succulent endocarp of cut fruit
is mirrored in the gleaming knife.

The rabbit’s neck hangs over the table’s edge.
You’d say the nose was velvet, but for
that velvet cloth, its convex nappe
tipped with little lights like pollen dust,
its folds and dark drapery elsewhere
the deepest, tenderest black.

Table, neck, edge, shadow, fabric, each
fully felt, of itself most perfect,
quiver and breathe, impaled by light
in the moment of perfection,
about to fall; forever unfallen.

Summer storm

In the sweet exertion of a timeless time
rowing on a calm lake
possible rain far off

we talked idly, exercising
the tongue, the hinges of jaw and eye
and the pull of imagination
easy over the water

when suddenly the sky fragmented
almost a chemical dispersion
of light, dark, heavy
of blue and stone

our oars scraped against the broken surface
reflective no longer, open
to deep disturbances

the wires of the wind laced and snaked
over shattered water
and we spoke no more

but scanned
the distant black serrated treeline
the tumbling clouds

electric birds repulsed
by the bitter light
screeched into shadows, claws outthrust

silent, muscles buckling along
our arms, we rowed
through the collapsing familiar

in each one’s ear
the beginning or the ending of a poem sounded
over and over
with the pulse of our stokes

heard or almost hear by each, alone,
in the dark rain falling

Dal Niente Concert May 2010

Oboe concerto
it was rollicking
it was juicy
a branch hung with baubles that danced and rang
together and apart
in the hot breath that held them

Ligeti Etudes pour piano
we ingested the strands and swallowed
as fast as we could, trying to chew
to taste, to taste
as they slipped into us
beyond our tongues
beyond even our senses
into our hearts or somewhere

Pre-Pulse Suspended: Section marked “abrasive”
a heavy long-handled spoon
plunged into damp sand and dragged
up slowly, rasping against
the powdered glass
losing grains as it rose
until it broke the surface, empty
the furrow quickly closed
over the narrowing, the invisible wound

Tinted sky
sonorous medallions in the high arches
minor suns, bell tongues thickened
and damped, their bronze disks
quivering still with silent recollection
of the music that was and might have been

The musicians
we, the driven steeds of time
blinkered and bound
are chased by clang and clatter,
a rich carriage, a trundling cart
we don’t know which
don’t care, we stretch our necks
our limbs devour the road ahead
behind our eyes the shining fields await

Travel

On the anniversary of the execution
the streets were quiet
shadowed by the sudden opening
of leaves in the early heat
exercises in perspective
empty to the point where the city
folded back its sepulchers and the travelers
spilled out and on to the next town

to go around the world
continuously to collect souvenirs or evidence
in relays of carriages and vessels
was not my intention
but here we are
suffering from deficient rapture
in the vast sun-flattened landscape
scaffolding stands ready for the son et lumière

we have arrived at the site
of the most recent disturbances
are shown the former prison
marked for changes to come
the smell of the damp cement
the stains a darker gray
the walls and seams a map
of loss and recovery
the dust of busyness
like snow on the ground
the chalky outlines of many feet

we emerge into the sunlight
around the corner
the drone and chirp of strange language
shadows of stone
infused with the dust and hue of stone
conceal the speakers
the shadows are black sharp, they slice
across the path; masking
the ruins we have come to view
eyes closed to the blinding sky
we walk on

What was it I lost?

What was it I lost?
Was it one or the latest of many?
A feeling, perhaps, or a friend,
then again, a plan, a key,
not essential but meant to be kept.

Between waking and sleeping
the palpable resonance of the familiar—
the sweet companionable rote
of bread and coffee and lists,
of seasons opening on their hinges—
plaited currents of night and day
little by little have undone the levees.

The exact moment is unknowable.
The dry verges where I stand
little by little open to the waters
where the intended, the loved,
the merely desired,
find their traceless exit.
I closed my eyes to their dark dissolving.

Now I am made to feel
not the nature of the loss:
but the heaviness
that hollows the air by its absence,
the green flame that limns the empty forms
when the light goes out.

I have looked everywhere,
in the garden, in the passageway
in the black hole under the stair,
for a long time so certain
I would be surprised
to see it where it has always been,
savoring the relief,
the glad welcome I would utter.

There you are, I would say.
It is still on my tongue, like a prayer.

We are told everyone has the same view of the universe

I woke to the black sky beyond the blue
there the stars like electric bees
webbed space with wavering lines
and loosed a phosphorus pollen
on clouds, on trees
on the vague and chilly calyx of the moon

no sound, no color, no angle
nothing that was not imaged round
and each thing’s roundness a decay
a sinking from its origin
curving back, a failed venture

the gates of the skull sprang open
night poured in among the bone
darkness was the lid of a vast eye
pressed by the heavy stars
and I within its sealed and struggling vision

Uncivil

The angry woman
backed out of the garage
talking to herself, explaining
why she would
swiveled into the street and aimed
the car at the child who had asked for it

another one took a gun
tired of hearing the same cold voices
she didn’t comb her hair
why would she
knowing she wore fed-up like a battle mask
strode into the meeting and opened fire

I am angry too, or let’s say
distressed, full of sorrow
or nervous, or all of the above
I’d like to talk but even now
they are making their cheeks long red smears
from brow to chin a black stripe
they are putting on bone necklaces
figurative but obvious all the same

the human in their animal forms
is somewhere unreachable
and yet they speak
one opens the red cave of his smile
and a hundred lies wing forth

my hand is a fist that all at once
I remember how to make
thumb coiled loose
leaving bare the serrate knuckles
I put everything into it
I can feel the blow
how his bone would break
his flesh would tear
he would taste blood
and gape, astounded, heaving
like a hooked fish
and it would feel like smooth unburning fire
so good, so good
but there he stands
smiling
and my hand falls open

the pleasure drifts away, the sour delight
I say, out loud
I did not. I could not. Or perhaps I could.
I do not know.

Late sonata

As I stumble through a late sonata
as I follow the notes like trees in a winter landscape
I hear the murmur of those who walked
with me in the woods after our feasts
when we were a little drunk
and in the moonless paths
we talked idly and took in sweet cold air

and we felt the rasp of cloth on cloth and knew
by the snap of twigs or the touch
where each one was
and now and then
the skies cleared over us
and in the light of the ancient galaxy
a face glimmered peacefully
relaxed in the darkness to an inner thought

The gooseberry

I might never have known this fruit
it is not found in the markets
it is not found anywhere
but on the boggy island
in the tall marsh grass blown
against the high sea-facing boulders
where sheep once grazed
ferried out in summer
on open wooden boats
their dingy fleece
as full of life as the sea
tangled with living twigs

I might never have stumbled across it
knees sunk in the peaty earth
where the bushes were low and dense,
all twisted limbs and thorns
and small lobed leathery leaves
folded grayish green
red and crisp and the edges
burnt by august sun

the weeping stems
rooted wherever they touch the ground
but lightly, borne on wiry lace

only by not moving
and looking without knowing
what I would see, did I see them
emerge, shyly at first
then in their eager numbers
the tiny garnet globes
hanging like lanterns
translucent, faintly fogged
as if by inner warmth
on the jade-ribbed skin
the papery tassels below
they tumbled down at a touch

and the taste—musky and tart
luscious and slightly off
like nothing else on earth
I think I could never eat enough

Velocity

Out of the darkness
a depthless calm delight
toes to the floor
eyes open but half dreaming
in the cool room
unhurried
you draw on the waiting garments

the familiar gate open
your place among the porches is clear
the signs patient at the corners

first steps bright and windless
the earths spins invisibly
the merest tug
the slightest whisper
of air across your cheek
the infant sun aslant
leafy, empty paths

and now you see
others taking the same way
or returning, but still
far off, indistinct
approaching at an unknown pace
there and not there

and now trees stand like bars
against the whitening sky
like masts, their green sails spread
and swelling as they rush
behind them shadowy towers
sharpen toward noon
the shadows gather speed

you cannot say
what suddenly seems urgent
on this familiar path
or who it is coming toward you
the gait is familiar
your eyes turn inward
fists clench like hearts
you think, I should speak
soon you will feel the warmth
and if you look up, drink
the brilliant liquid of a living glance

shadows blur and push
you stumble in mid-stride
slow thought summoning nerve
to raise your freighted hand
in time, in time

as the one you meant to greet
with smile or word
whirls on
now close, now strange, now gone

music I

do birds sleep?  if they do
something wakes them in the hour
of out-flowing dark

to open their beaks and break
silence with sudden freshets
of sure song

note on note
that merge and part like blown water
on the sheer pane of night

music II

in front of me at the new music recital
his body an attentive comma
leaning toward
the oncoming waves

I watch him try to follow the mysterious arc
and overlapping pulses
like a rope jumper waiting to enter
the rhythm of a familiar game

but it can’t be done
the long trembling note
thickens and implodes

mice scatter under the skin
the inner ear unfolds vagueness
a storm of unrelenting sound
drowns the gutters
an enormous insect
beats, beats the air
outward and back into the vortex

until the quiet air rushes in where
nothing remains
but our noisy clapping and confusion