A Blue Tail Feather

You have devoured the pheasant
and now you sweep your desk
with its blue tail feather.
So you didn’t write back
to your friend in dark need.
His darkness.
Hi darkness.
Of his own intricate making.
You get tired of talking to it.
The browner fields that lay wet all winter,
When you can’t not think of their bones,
There is really nothing in there,
Chunks, pried ice more than anything,
Maybe a few Gordian knots of roots,
The leftovers of the salad days,
They’re only here to be looked on.
It is and isn’t like a body laid open
By surgeons on a metal table.
The love knots and their strangulations
Of the anticipative past
You could display
As natural forms, as art.
Some of those look Gaelic.
They make for sexy tattoos of constancy,
The only real human threat.
The passivity of that earth,
strange as if it were a ring of Saturn,
why does it soothe you driving past?
Your soul is a photosynthesis of darkness.
The largeness of small chemicals
Should not be underestimated.
The smell of language’s chemicals,
How you use them to char the images
That float in the dark bath.
The swipe of your hand
Using the blue feather
In a lightless room,
Jabbing at furious dark and future dust,
Maybe this is really you.
It darkens the dust almost like an apology.
The world is in two pieces: you and it.
This wound into two is done.
The mouth suddenly closes.
The heart skips a beat of iron.
The blue feather commands your attention.
Your friend is gone into.

It does its little blue sutra.

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Old Man at Faucet

The spigot
grows dark
becomes more
becomes more itself
more happenstance
It flows relentless
less personalized
lighter
because heeded less
the sense of cold
of the water
beginning to speak
begging
louder
cold taken apart
from water
The sense of a river
behind it
the yawn
of its source
a terror thing
as the yawn
of memory
widens the mouth
of the river
where no one
stands or looks
tonight tonight
where no body is
since they are all
downstream
In another room
another house
or apartment
It is only
a clear glass
of water
in another’s
turning hand
as the fish
in the river
young
and constantly
turning

 

Pebble

This pebble does not even wake at morning
There is no need for it to even know
When the arc of the heavens comes up over it
When dawn rides up with her rosy hood
There is a sweeping sense of existence
For those who rise and look out windows
The pebble that rests on the street
It is as real as you or I or any president
But it cannot care that it is real
Is it more or less true than us?
Granted, it always was exactly what it was
It didn’t vacillate the way we do
Oh, there were tiny erosions
But we wouldn’t know

So we mock it and say “unreal”

Because it never changes so much

So violently

Nobody could ever even know to endear

The way we fall in love with the inconstancies

Those People

Those people who think it is their duty
To cease to exist      for the rest of us
Whether very old or very young
They are like drawings blown through the snow
When the winter comes up to one’s house
I feel their existence constantly
Creases in my being
Everything about us is paper
We are here to be recorded on
I feel their existence constantly
Green light at the empty intersection
When there are no cars there
Growing light and breaking up again
As the seconds in a clock
They do away with themselves
And their names blow after them
They make me very sad because I understand
I try to hold them by the fistful
But it is like snow in the warmth of a fist
It is like the green light of the intersection
Where there are no cars and the snow blows through
Bright and scintillating and light
As if to show off
How easy it is to be nothing
But a sense of light
Blowing through the eyes of others
Never again agreeing or disagreeing