Galaxy 27


There are still
voices there's
the quiet
whisper who
is like a distant
fever or even
the hot
blanket you
suffered under.

Then there is
the iron
hot from the fire
which does not know
us even though
we know of burns
and smoking woods.

Somewhere in between
these two galaxies
sound carries
on & there are
radio waves making
it across the dark
spectrum, which
sings in a hard
dry tenor deeper
than you or I
could ever muster.

The other war


That never happened
is curious
and alive-
the super dirigibles,
the jumbo jets and Roy
Lichtenstein in charge
of it all. And where

are you in all of this?
I've noticed you've
missed my fragmented
way of doing business,
or say, the
nice collection
of particles of sky plucked
when I was up there
last time—here this

one's as blue as
Navajo turquoise—
it tells stories,
likes your eyes,
tells me if you're
true enough.

And the last thing
in my plastic menagerie-
the war now inhabits
these jewels of experience
we've shared
all the way from
one home to another,
back when the summer
was a real twist, an opening
that made us glad
as cornflowers.

Lightning 23

What ever is
left of it
In some damned
Dimension
cracks like
Orange lightning
Sometimes.  In
My swirling specs
Or just a
Note about
Lunch.  And
The wet rain
Returns the
Present to
Something livable.

What is it like

What is it like to live in Milan?
I live in the thick green suburbs
Of a rusted Midwestern city--
O, you can hear the freight trains
Blowing past like they really have
Some place to go, at night, like they
Really care about all the dark little
Patches of oak rushing by.
That what the American night
Is all about.  So that we all get up
In the morning to wonder if there are
Other cities among the stars,
Other songs making the air a confusion
Of stories.  Do you go to the park
To sit in the sun?  I've sat on my
Porch for ages waiting for that to happen.
Right now, in the eternal state of Ohio
I'm just home.  Dinner is warm,
Outside the silver maples have been
Absorbed by nightfall reduced
To items found at a garage sale--
It's all become a church pot-luck,
Where you can never be sure
Of anything once the sun's gone.

A ghost contacting other ghosts

It too late to be learning
About Wagner's leitmotifs
And shifting tonal centers--
That's for the new world
To discover if it wants.

I am more for you than you
Know. Even the Rilke you read
Can mean the great sun is
A fabulous golden symbol
For what was known, what
Was conquered under the stars.
Sure I spread her thighs in late
Summer and she told me
I made her glad as fall is wet
And ruddy.  The season
Twirling toward us, no reason
Except the animals to go on.

So as a ghost calling you out
From the forlorn burned -out
Center of forgotten Ohio
I hold the censer
I reek of smoke and have tasted
The burnt offerings left by
The former tenants.  There
Against the wall is the lizard
That some poets hated, although
This one is fat, obscene, filled
With god knows what.  A power
Of the everlasting, for which
This ghost, me, is in retreat.
I cannot mention
The desert without

What ever darkness

What ever darkness
You want, then earth
Is the place to go.
The slow conservative
Flowers, the wild
Strawberries clumped
Behind a local gate-
You twist a ring
To get in that yard.
And now the night
Cut by sirens, the Rolling
Stones song in the kitchen
Worn down like you, drowned
By the night howl of fire trucks.