Do the tones of your voice
linger or
Is it a memory, murmur of the sea?
A mixture of shells on wet sand,
Hesitant foam, razor shell.
The evening’s slow approach to dusk,
Your hand on dune and reed. Let
This touch be slow and tender, the word
Brush your lips without hurt.
Glass beads yes, but could I be
The victim of the night, lover
Strangled in hemp, and you are
Not sure. You rise, listen to the
Field piano, the sounds of curly
Lettuce, half-hearted tones of do
Remember and the greenish evanescence
That used to sparkle, and was gone.
How do fingers swerve across a piano?
Or do they roam the keys in vain?
You must drip water in your night head
And atomize your nose to point each letter
To its place and then lean gently
Back in your rocking chair that
No longer touches the dawn. Night-
Urns in the rising sun, golden – ashes – soft.
I hide in the crook of the iron
Hoe and do not yield to the head-
Hunters. Would not, throat slashed, be
Displayed for sale in fish markets on
Marble slabs, but tinkle like Beluga and
Roll on your tongue, fish roe, caviar.
Night song of the chromosomes, the dance
Of innocents, performed in up-tempo.
How to forget such a slow waltz.
Buy the music box of memory and
Play that song again and again. See how
You dance, kiss, turn and linger. See the
Snow fall and shiver at the red drops
Erasing the frostwork of past winters,
Rocking the notes inside yourself,
Hiding your tears in the crook of your arm.
