Ars Poetica In:
their hands pack and palm a raw until it unseams smooth
one of them thinks I’ll make a jar for baby teeth, another wants
a singing kettle, seven cups for wine of windy grapes.
Above their wheels they lean and punch their elbows to their guts,
spin the clay with water. Under their clawing it quivers, faints
into a slick. But they press their hands into its give.
With wet prodding the spheres, like stars, collapse, but thinly twist
To heightly hollows; bowed—swan bowls. The ones who can unfurl the sides
To muscled flank are the ones who watch for what it wants.
presuppose the universe hangs about you in fine threads
of burnt lace and ever pulse and joint-pull is a breaking through.
Sunset all strung up with the star clots, woods a s-tring
of hard and bird and ancient emerald frailed into grit-green leaf.
Assume we are a woven thing—(some say our shaking mountains
show we are the drapery on some holy knee–) our woolen earth,
the whale tooth moon, this whole screaming spin. But there are wells
where trees once were—a poet can see
small spaces in the stitch, a severance of our endlessness.
we roll now, your hold grips my hips and I know all
gathering things, how the shore collects the tide again and again.
Your slow yawn shows me canyons, wide and stale-stoned, silt of salt and spice
in the cradle. When your words stop I know what silence is above us,
among the nerves of stars. Once you pushed me from you and now I’ve felt below
the earth, an inhuman bottom—when you’ve cried I’ve heard a tendon slowly town
from bone. I’ve escaped any coiled logic, save my seizuring interior,
in each of your small gestures: open worlds, layered sifts of light.
In the brown of your irises I see red and green and leaping.