Dead Poet
-- after Jules
Supervielle
right
now--hand
him an
ant, a spider
anything
little to
hold
beak of
swallow
sparrow
wren
put in his palm
slivers of rain-
damp grass
changing
to green again
let him
feel rough
red brick with each finger-
tip
or pebbles
through his shoes--
next to
nothing he's
been emptied out
under the moon,
in this
void
laced with stars
--but he'll
give back
song
words dancing
sarabande as they call up what's
ungraspable as air,
make hidden
light rise inside snow
or show
luminescent
domes of cloud piled at
the sky's far edge
--he sings name
on name,
then offers
quiet too, its wide
erasure
he who waits
alone & friendless,
steeped in the
shadow of a wall or spring-
flowering tree
7/22
lit
now
how the deep-
lobed maple
fluttery locust
pull with a
wind
stretching them
tight
in between
A slow
a slow
kind of
breeze
parting leaf
from leaf
this deliberation
letting yarrow
soar
formally
like flat-topped
milky clouds
while the air
mists
silvered grey
& a window blinks
distantly
opalescent as though
some-
one you remember
remembered
you
there
& who maybe
waved --
Moon,/the clear star-
moon,
the clear star-
light
winds more than
edgy
engage these
pond willows
/
head to
head in night
dances,
low over ice a
click
clicking
of "sticks"