A fitful sleep broken by dawn
light clear as the air is cool
yet ready to warm as the yellow
hands of day rub themselves
together—how tender the green
leaves after the blossoms fall
blown, blown flowers to stone
the thin, fragile flower pedicels left
the receptacle open and empty
vacant blown to ground
to lovers' hair, to macadam
marked with new blood.
What color guilty blood?
Bile green? Dried dust of Mars?
Our physicians are back to bloodletting—
what has it cured?
The day knows, the day knows
speaking a thousand tongues
of daffodils and dandelions
to give us each—whether bright red or oxidized—
the rich word of Persephone
hair combed, curled, plaited,
corn-rowed,
aureole pink, wheat, cocoa
the song of Pan
thigh tense, defined
lips wet and pursed to the pipe
the genius of blue sky gathering whispers
of water to cotton balls or
wet woven cloth.
Woe or blessing?
How does the scale tip
for the thousand sunbeams shed
just now this instant?
Unfathomable horror, unimaginable delight.
A dozen cameras' hypnotism in which to catch ourselves.
No, let the light fall. Let the light fall
unaided, unshaded, unevaded
warm or blinding, calm or fevered
glancing about unto dusk.
May our
hands stay for the moment's light.
