A cozy silence
closes,
knitting knuckles around a low room
of woods stone plaster tables
a tavern.
Shifting figures tense
as though aware a weir-

skulking gloom.
Fires gasp
and spatter night gem;
somewhere a rasp
of merriment leaves on the
last ferry, fast.

A greater quiet rides a gargantuan camel
of static nearer, patching
its quilt of many breathy epiphanies lost...

A lacuna—
that rain shadow
—falls like a porcelain mask,
cuts us into tangent vectors,
directions.

-

A cozy silence
closes worn fingers about a room.
Shifting figures tense
as though aware some skulking gloom.
Fires gasp
and toss dark shards about;
Somewhere the rasp
of merriment slinks away, chagrined.
A great quiet slips nearer;
It is the sound of many voices lost.
Of a sudden the silence falls like an axe
And cuts laughter free of its masters.

fa;;,
I was
noticing
the
sound

twigs departing severa;
                                          ;eaves
in
human
                      form

swam a ground

the first sign of darkness?
- -slips by- -

  didn't see it

- -and then another- -

  who can say for sure?

- -again!- -

  divinity calms my trunk of ribs,

  still there,

  clenched

- -it darkens- -

  in my

- -growing ever dimmer- -

  fingernails

- -as the night takes hold
 of

The desert we tread,

Our feet of lead. . .

The desert we tread. . .

What lies ahead?

Where is our tear?

Have we no fear?

Where is our tear?

So often near.

We drift a long day

Toward desert's display—

We drift on the day—

Our hopes not frayed.

Oh mistaken night,

We must take fright!

Oh mistaken night,

Illusion so bright!

The desert we tread,

All hope hence fled;

The desert we tread,

Until we got dead.

violet breezes;

dew drops chime

in the sprinkling sunshine:

what melody teases?

with jubilant caress,

languid scents stir,

while leaves whisper

about the watercress

birds in flowery flight

salute the copper sky,

with a swooping cry;

then verdantly alight

in sultry sadness

marches the day—

with golden spray—

towards its death

a black h
O
le pulls the universe,
trying,

stretching its arms,
crying to eat the wh
O
le;

like a tree
it has shape:
its arms are branches,

its gr
O
ping hands are leaves,

everything it has ever eaten
O
ver time

has found the trunk—

its (ca ta clys mic) es
O
phagus,

^past^the^teeth^
O
f^its^event^
h
O
   riz
O
n and
  t
    h
  e
c
    h
  e
   w
i         ng
      s
   w
i
 rl
i         ng
O
 rb
i
  t   s
O
  f
i
  t   s
m
O
ut
    h,
     the belly is
      a gr eater
       m( . )nd
        th I an
         m^ne
          :  a
            .
          s p
           O
          t ! :
        w    h
    ere        its
          a^e
           *r*
    <>O<>O<>
        ><ts><
> <       ?       > <
            :n
            Ow f
            Olding s
            O that all wh
            Oles are
            One
            1
            .