Dark dots fall
one prize in her lifetime:
* * *
themselves on sky, as though wrought iron;
as though fleeing a gunman.
in even the most lyric
causing fever to spike, scarlet
than winter sun.
One does not die of this fever as it cools down. Preternatural:
I see sky curve around, down:
closing over a box of silk:
while birds, crazing sky like porcelain,
fly to roost before steel locks sundown.
The Cloud of Witnesses Is Gone
which blew like marble-dust
choking eyes & throat.
What the sculptor carved, stands:
that takes life, holds it in both hands.
* * *
We put Gesualdo on:
For so long
supper hour rang like a temple-bell, a bronze chime.
when warmth leaves earth,
unwitnessed but witnessing,
We bow to fire-sheets of sound:
to choirs, & the quiet finch come
Winter Seven (7)
Opponents shaking hands before the round;
Ozone rising like water to close above a town;
Woman-organist with small hands;
A body defying paralysis, dealt on non-negotiable terms;
A long vigil in a sickroom:
Acceptance, that profound presencing of calm.
The poet finds her life engulfed by clouds of unknowing: O Magnum Mysterium.
A great Romanian uncle (at age 93) said to me:
“C’etait une grande poete, une grande Juive,” ( Simone Weil.) “Comme toi.”
Wound in fire-sheets of sound: these winter seven.
Author's note: The translation of the line by Weil: "She was a great poet, a great Jew like you."
Broadside Series - Contents