Early Before Noon
Limb, Limbs flashing, always limbs
pink- bronze and young leaves
almost turned with fall — seasons all late
this year, and now always — the way
roses crystalize, long ahead, without nothing
the grass tips spurt fire,
climbing one’s back and reminds as all
nature, to kill and exult;
the individual. Absolute and
ruthless distinction — all of man’s houses
hanging by rings with buzz and din.
Red doors, where grandfather’s and
dead loves lay.

The city’s din and hum a razor when calm— still
bloody, more peace than —
we can laugh and burn and sit the rest
relaxed and realized that before,
as almost all of what’s to’s
been figured, so sit and eat the new and old
fineries — and drink! — and know there’s
something more to do until we are all
wise and beyond love.

I Saw the Breasts Of
I saw the breasts of Venus the night before
I saw her—in a dream,
Where I remembered what I saw and then felt.

Years ago her breasts floated the same
Like pale swollen apples
Warm and perfectly puckering to
Their dainted dark rose ends.
I remembered them and her who I half knew
And how she invited me to her split room—
And one or two others:
Knowing only one could accept.
I accepted that night,
Simple and happy and unworried about love and lust
(which may mean love)— and
She touched me and kissed me
Until her stripped shirt split for her—
Venus, they spun but fuller,
Ever warmer, even lovelier but without her
I’d never have known that night why I dreamt,
Until I saw her that morning and knew
I’d seen her more than marble.

The two girls twined and languid with eachother—
I dreamed them too, just hours ago.
One a long lover past, one more
Innocent and sweetly-dumb than the sun.
Another always her half-disapproved friend. She spat on me and
She rubbed me,
They are immortal— whether I am
Is no interest — they are young (many old):
Caresses languid as dancing, their bodies never change.

They are immortal— and why I remember must be the same
As the crowds remember, huddling upwards to
Venus de Milo (half-looking)
They are the faint memory,
And the flesh still warm not stone.

When I Wake and Able
When I wake and able to lay,
Or standing waking midday
Soul raw and still grateful (always fleeting)
And pained for— and pained
Most and commonly for those alone,
Wishing otherwise, and those
Who don’t, still alone…
Forgetting the breed of man who is neither (numerable
By hand and prayable piecemeal later),
I pray for loneliness and for its resolutions.
And the prayers feel weak
And almost all the prayers feel weak nowadays
But better than without.
There’s nothing to be done with
Feeling and openness that on occasion wakes one;
And those who say otherwise have never felt;
Prayer for when there is nothing else.
I’m not sure this direction my prayers
Always fall towards, speaks to me or the rest.

God’s Little Angels
God’s little angels—
(Some of whom have hands), dumb and
Standing, working, closing their
Bags with tumors the size of breasts.
Some would kill them,
Others recommend the zoo
(For edification’s sake).
One day there will be none by science
Or judgement. Surely then
We will know tears,
Then the maybe smiles of their parents?
Their mouths and eyes will hold the mysteries.
What they will look like will be
Enough of a miracle.