Eschatology
The ocean was as static as
I've seen it—
the waves trembled more than crashed,
like glass hit by a spoon and quivering,
against the hard banked sand.
The Atlantic
rolled over like a dog
and played dead for us,
as we walked in the shallow
waves of low tide, weaving our way
down the shore, along sand and
ankle deep waves that overflowed—
a too-full drain across our feet.
But the water was as clear
as I've seen it—
the post-hurricane waves lapped
as if the ocean wished it were a lake
instead. I expected seaweed and sludge
and crab claws, but we found
a beach so vacant and beautiful
it seemed sterile, the way it will look
when the world is over. It was September,
the sun still warm, but not fighting
to keep anything flourishing or alive.
It was when we started—
walking
along the hard sand with my hand
on your hand— your hand on my neck
and the barren beach surrounded us,
conned us with its calm, allowed
low tide to withdraw any future, leaving
only those small rocks on sand
that had been battered, reshaped
then smoothed, long before us.
Passage
The house I dream in is set
back from the forest
on a hill, always buried then recovered
months after I leave it in waking— then discovered in
dreams later—
creaking at dawn, settling in its frame.
The house is wooden and
long, its halls barren. Rooms
with high ceilings loom like those in abandoned
factories,
with workbenches instead of shelves, cluttered by rusted
tools,
dirty pennies in tin cans, dusty lampshades with their
cloth in shards, dolls with eyelashes that bat at me
when I reach for their faces. These are not antiques.
The dust is a filth I sift
through in silence
because I know someone walks the halls,
who lived once— when this junk worked
and was useful— though now both refuse of sorts.
This might easily become a
nightmare, but I know I belong
here. If only to guard this garbage that awake, I'd throw
away.
In sleep or death, I pour
over this dream history,
hope to find letters or clothes, undershirts of lace, to
better understand
my ancestors— who have become more dream than matter.
Who ever paces these halls
is my history
and future. Although presently I cannot keep what I find
behind the false walls
that open into hidden chambers. I hold nothing but what I
remember.
In those searches, the most
stunning thing I've seen
was a series of butterflies floating in glass bowls
that lined the shining floor boards all the way to the
base of a wide wooden staircase
which I will some day walk up.
The Edge of the Street
Shards of green bottles in
the paper bin,
cracked and blackened light bulbs
ancient computer plastics, manila blotched boards
a sagging lawn chair, vacuum cleaner heads
cream and tan bathroom tile—
dry wall, an authentic wreath composed entirely
of walnut shells and pipe cleaner, more dry wall.
These containers can take it
all
and mostly, the recycling men are heroes
for not banging on our landlady's door
at seven in the morning—
their one hundred and seventeenth house,
the third hour of drizzle and hanging the whole time
off the blue back of that truck.
At the end of the day,
beaten and bruises on that same spot on the left thigh,
where the bins are boosted before tumbling
in a pile with that other shit. All this garbage
that they throw away, but can't get rid of.
And some afternoon naps
transformed into endless
toiling— sorting the plastics from glass and
the green from aqua and azul
from blue
and a campfire burning it all emerald and orange
the blazes stretch to the tips of telephone poles.
Snow White
She must have been dead
or her breath would've fogged the glass.
Those little male miners had
to embalm her
laying her in the glass case
or she'd be decomposed— to the point that her
lips curled back and tongue bloated and black
hanging from her mouth.
No prince would kiss that.
The sun shining through the
glass
would heat the case up so fast that after five hours
her whole body would be swollen green and oozing.
Sure, they didn't kill her,
but the little men fixed something up
in between finding her collapsed at the door
and leaving her in her best dress, starched
in the glass case to wait for burial or marriage
to that man.
How did
they do it? The excavating dwarfs
kissed her before sleep at night and breezed out
in the morning after breakfast. One afternoon found her
unaware and pulled out her intestines. Threw away
her brains, saved her heart in a black box and buried it
under the floor boards. They left her on display
in a glen. For the next man to revive or carry
away to a castle somewhere. Where she'll remain, fair
or forever.