the sun shining over the Rubicon
lighting flat bronze to a glow
illuming the occasional peak a wave like a brass napkin
like a wizard’s hate the wave breaks
Corn crakes to the south brown, blacken wheat blanches under
but I am the sun flaming above the Rubicon.
Folk are crossing, hands to foreheads as though willing
wailing, charred, children are draped like wet linen, limp
in their parent’s arms
lover are weeping
I am the one & only light above
this ribbon where the affliction is beyond
eclipse between this world & the next: point of no
Northern Italy, yet having changed so many times it is
determine the point of my origin.
I am the riverbed under the Rubicon
I never sleep. Alea iacta est (“The die is cast”)
The pilot out of fuel cannot return no other point to
my soil will not receive him Beyond my hearing ring the
There’s no surprise in rainbut a torrent!
And a gray sluggish dawn.
“I don’t think of you as disabledbur trapped”
I am the nightingale whose throat is pierced by the song
dirges of those crossing, pleas to get to the sky reflected
shields from me: Covered mirrors, no radiance. A veil of
Yet I am not shielded
I cry. My mother wept, my father became an insomniac when I
stricken with this affliction beyond prayer, un-recanting
beneath world's most sorrowful river.
Where will old churches go when they die?
Re-entry the cruel century silver hinges
slamming it seven
Where will brick go? bells? In the graveyard of boots?
where shoe trees darken cast foot forms spill over, mossy,
porcelain tubs rust:”
pulpits choir lofts.
Where will old dryers go when they die with the sinks into
Pearl boys I see in sodium orange lamplight:
I read maps of child poverty as I go down to sleep
where zinc darkens:
Thirst, Rust, Frost. My miner’s lamp of keepsake kerosene
The old-time enclosed buggy for delivering
When love is on the rocks sky tears teal
fašade peels layer-by-layer word-for-word, embraces are
piecemeal old atina is scraped off with pocket knife and
lodestone file shavings seal night:
my life rose steel.
the graveyard of shoehorns translucent, see-thru:
ram’s shell yellow as parchment,
we lay awake checking the clock with iridescent
Mahler’s music had zoned us out before bed. This was the
dawn of rising young executive though you are 60: rising
russet with the rooster. Crow!
Silver & red fox
larkchild is sombre
Blowup with Sweetheart
Were the banjo player’s eyes the rapist’s”
angering your girlchild:
boring holes. And they were not thorns with roses, nor wild.
Snow advisory in effect, you go out to the wide, wide world
inform, enrich, inspire:
I stay home in circle of the lamp zeroing in like halo:
red as blood, as clowns,. Pictures which fly in the face of
are painted with a brush, paid by hand, lavished by green
Every now & then a woman is born with a voice ever
gentle soft & low:
like a dark animal running thru a forest in snowfall
indigo silk rippling thru tapestry background tree-lace
twice the depth of most European coal beds. The season is a
MAGNIFICAT. Under sodium light, orangely sing pearl boys.
One can sing too low
can run too deep
this is the festival of lights. Leap
season of mirth. Estonian & Mennonite soulfully unite:
Christmas & Good Friday are a deep connection:
the color of bark, of leather runs up
is the Marian connecton:Ours
right of the worshipful election.