Nightmares formulate a horizon
blistering as a cold,
wet air hanging in the throat
along a drunk moon,
a blood poured out in fever
climbing out of sleep as a cable car.
What we knew about the problem
Was the problem itself - it grew
In promethean light, stealing rejoinders
And roses and all things related
To entropic scaffolds holding back the gloom.
New words slow in tongue - slipped
Out along the shins and and snowed
In us until the subduction.
What could have been was not:
A cake to welcome the band of heat,
Neat drinks poured into the inferno,
A chandelier of horns from the ring
To sound the death of the matador:
I would have loved the muleta if it was poured into my heart.
582 Love Sonnets to the Rock: 12
Let’s not spend too long
with the whirlwinds of light,
or the visions behind curtain fissures,
fine corpses wound around our fingers
when all the while, really, we’re beyond the idea
of a tomb. The fog had our prints on it,
us alumni of transfiguration, rewriting
the vernacular of islands and anything
surrounded by a sea. I close my eyes and
imagine us on a spicy plain, fires bursting
through in lines drawn as a mesa -
I’ll try not to wake you, forehead resting deep against
the sky, until the stars are taut with gold
chains, dripping immensely with fruit.
The sea explodes, turns around, bathes in pale
semblance of an opening in the cell’s corner,
sees suffering in a vision carried generations away.
Bull shit, Ma’am, there are no whispers there,
you know, lost and alive and colorful and drawing
themselves in all looming ebbs.
I suspect the mountains
are watching; I suspect their desire;
I suspect it’s true and will remember itself upon
the recapitulation of the wind shine when it burrows
through the street. It came to me,
Ma’am, in vowels shifting to one note,
exalted and tiny, an untipped
cup, by happenstance, held out to me.