Matre

Encroaching and burnt to Sienna
Where cattle and women are beaten
Sown into dry earth, braided there
Like dough, until they may be nourishment
And beauty, always beauty
What foolish men to make such rhymes
Sealing our breath into jars, into gloss
Gouging out eyes with paper and wax
Can silence be anything but
The enemy?

Parable A

The burden of stone

There is a woman singing
Alone among the flowers
Pitch covers her face

And silence fled to the temple
To save Judas, Iscariot
The fool with two eyes
Fixed upon the field, the flowers
Have died one thousand three hundred
And fifty times over
Have they no grace period, no
Fall?

Beneath the pond, a scratching
Moves to the edge seeking freedom
And a loss of rhythm

The window expels truth, slain
On the floor beside
That which I in my fury and conviction
Am unable to find, though I have two eye
Myself is all I see

Sought

The lines in the carpet all point to something else
But I cannot find the seam, I cannot escape
Depth. Beneath, a pearl is buried unlost
Though unattainable
the point is: exit.

Revel

the world itself is left penniless and bold
Fitfull and frightfully red
How things can become better
And worse simultaneously
The angels have had it with singing
Now the pictures they paint are of vines
Heavy with grapes
And dust
The ground is littered with them (the angels’ harps)
Behind the door, where all light is
Famished