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The Communication

And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond
the language of the living.
                     “Little Gidding” T.S. Eliot

In my blood garden,
up the softest path
my hardy center 
lifts life like water,
holds death like warm earth
                            on a sunny day
on Sunday. Funeral spectators stand.

I do not sleep now.
“I do not sleep less,”
never-be daughter 
said, “first, lift me up
then, bury me deep 
                   build mounds, round with bone 
relics of my no-life to drunk Buddha.”

I do not sleep now.
I talk in questions.
Recite holy text
about life and grief
where no solace, 
                is offered by the dead
who must speak fluently without our words.

Never-be daughter
said, “I do live there
where splendor is lost
because of your grief
I tell you now, 
               the most beautiful life
does not exist on your death-wailing earth

where I am not real
as flowers are not
in winter’s reprieve,
a transient rest.”

Is there a date you will awake and be
a flower from my mothering sorrow?

We

We laughed as children
together 
         we played
games of my childhood
in reverse, like this:

You were old, Father,
talked like a perfect
child 
      as I once was

a beautiful child,
I sat under news

of the well-informed
mind of a distant 
father 
       I have learned
the art of reading
commentaries, or
obituaries,
in reverse
           Imprint:
You were a good father.
You will make a good son.

On women (at night); Manhattan, KS

Sometimes, anywhere, in transitory shadows which linger,
certain secrecies will form between a man and woman.
If you remain within these alleys with certain women,
life sometimes will remain, and it can not suffer, nor die.

Nor should it ever die in this remarkable age and town.

(every city is chaos in twilight, dark and touching;
remember the yellow and orange lights which invade night,
like angels speeding to enter the once and mythic hell,
the night which will forever and always keeps its first rule:
that all lovers will awaken and swoon.
-this is just a city, one that remembers.
forgive its endless turns and its endless round-abouts.)

We should do a very small justice to remember
its lovers, against lamp-posts, in cracks and in dimness,
eternally against black alley walls in forever white,
rubbing sex against the miniature wealthy,
in their white sophisticated collars. Or,
the dirty and remarkably strong hands, which,
more than often reach, reaching. . .
(poor servitude and poor belief should never forget.)
to forget the shuffling footsteps of commonality,
the shrugging shoulders of our spirituality,
the proud mysteries of our delicate and forgotten merchants.

macro

Increase the Earth's worth. Children should never grow up and become what we are now.

And If I am sad, frail, and a little bitter, then, well, February is indeed the grayest month.

Let us, you an I, give space for the sun. It will gladly rise up in the darkest winter months. Give it room for attack in a frozen sky. Some months will freeze breath in winter, freeze life on earth; but, the Sun will make beauty in a smile, an embrace - radiation that will warm our petals.
Let no sun error in what is proven: a road to redemption, physical mortality, in a pervasive mind and languished heart; let it never freeze.

And out footsteps will run wild with the beginning of that Star exploding.