on walt whitman knowing his body will decay

body, do not flutter
like a kite
in the sudden, open
sky, wide
arms of a wooden cross
gone soft with rain water,
a flawed bird in the wind

tether this body
to something,
even itself to itself.
tightly wrap the sinew
to the bone, coil it closer,
denser

somewhere
in the permanent dark
where there are no limbs,
bottom-sea stones
are hearts without bodies,
full of patient longing.
if you listen,
sighs, without lungs,
never taper

'all the prayers are sung. nothing is spoken.'

26 January 2009 [2]

[What is your idea of perfect happiness?]
A secluded home and a true love.

26 January 2009

[Which talent would you most like to have?]
To fearlessly survive without anything. To accept transience.

question

could I protect
the dark sea
of your solitude?
in the cold salt mist
could i build stone upon
stone, could the seat of me
sit happily, just outside,
a lighthouse on the cusp of
that unfurling dark

body honest

and what could i do
to make this body
honest, no dead compass
this skin naked thin
like it was meant for
touching, not holding
all of me together---
what function?
some parts of me
are broken, even red

and if i leave it wanting
like an animal stare
will another meaning
be weathered out,
whittle something
from this wanting

and if i pare it down,
still the humming flutes, tighten
every cord, oh
the angles must be perfect
now, for sound
is a delicate thing
every instrument must sing

almost

give me a white room
a bachelor's room

an old window
with old heavy glass
lets the air in
far-off crickets
the natural dust
of books in their places

to be cold only in summer
at night high up in the forest.
let the darkness be a cloak
I can take off in the morning---
and all before daybreak
we touch, covered and blind
eyes rolled back and in
we all need lids

so give me a white room.
let me count the days,
the sun sinking and rising
tracing the white walls with
warmth, just grazing it

seeing

Graves everywhere bless and

dot the land, thumbprint ashes 

from the priest, like a bruised third eye.

By the dug earth, is it Beatrice

all in white, all in black, emerald eyes

'La gloriosa donna della mia mente,'

is it her, by the water?

And how could I write the letter

that would matter, now.

Molten eyes, bubbling over

with light, please

do not ever
dilute this picture

13

"It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow."