D u (a) l
Things keep happening
O what is new to foretell–
scratching his soft beard,
Tiresias slips into his twin-bed
and dreams of a shepherd
in a song of reaping,
that is,
neither to sow
nor to sell;
but the snakes soon unravel.
***
I t s b o d y
Oh look
it begins again
in sadder places
when the cave becomes
sun-percolated bareness,
and there is a buzz of flies–
look–
at the swindlers
swarming
to eat sadness with their bare hands.
***
The Last Door
There is an ineptitude
in excess of feelings
that devour all words,
just as they are encountered by a large door
painted with a medieval-mourning,
clothed in a monk-brown;
it is really not strange
for me to be deeply be in love
and to be found at this gate–
it is a segue
doubly-enshrined
by a belief that there is no higher altitude at all
by a disbelief in yet another higher altitude
like Meaning,
eternally slipped away from the mouth of the language.
***
Horizon
There is a reaching out to close the door
the man looks for a knob–
his hands reach out to the ceiling
past the moon
past the stars
past the stars above the stars,
where does the eye end,
in you or in me?
The vicious gaze,
Where does it stop?
