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Is this what you intended, Vincent that we take our rest at the end of the grove nestled into our portion beneath the bird’s migration saying, who and how am I made better through struggle. Or why am I I inside this empty arboretum this inward spiral of whoop ass and vision the leafy vine twisting and choking the tree. O, dear heaven, if you are indeed that or if you can indeed hear what I might say heal me and grant me laughter’s bounty of eyes and smiles, of eyes and affection. To not be naive and think of silly answers only not to imagine answers would be the only destination nor is questioning color even useful now now that the white ray in the distant tree beacons. That the sun can do this to us, every one of us that the sun can do this to everything inside the broken light refracted through leaves. What the ancients called peace, no clearer example what our fathers called the good, what better celebration. Leaves shine in the body and in the head alike the sun touches deeper than thought. O to be useful, of use, to the actual seen thing to be in some way related by one’s actions in the world. There might be nothing greater than this nothing truer to the good feelings that vibrate within like in the middle of the flower I call your name. To correspond, to be in equanimity with organic stuff to toil and to reflect and to home and to paint father, and further, the migration of things. The homing action of geese and wood mice. The ample evidence of the sun inside all life inside all life seen and felt and all the atomic pieces too. But felt things exist in shadow, let us reflect. The darkness bears a shine as yet unpunished by clarity but perhaps a depth that outshines clarity and is true. The dark is close to doubt and therefore close to the sun at least what the old books called science or bowed down to. The dark is not evil for it has indigo and cobalt inside and let us never forget indigo and the warmth of that the warmth of the mind reflected in a dark time in the time of pictures and refracted light. Ah, the sun is here too in the polar region of night the animal proximity of another and of nigh. To step into it as into a large surf in late August to go out underneath it all above and sparkling. To wonder and to dream and to look up at it wondrous and strange companion to all our days and the toil and worry and animal fear always with us. The night sky, the deep sense of space, actual bodies of light the gemstone brushstrokes in rays and shimmers to be held tight, wound tighter in the act of seeing. The sheer vertical act of feeling caught up in it the sky, the moon, the many heavenly forms these starry nights alone and connected alive at the edge. Now to think of the silver and the almost blue in pewter. To feel these hues down deep, feel color wax and wane and yellow, yellows are the tonality of work and bread. The deep abiding sun touching down and making its impression making so much more of itself here than where it signals the great burning orb installed at the center of each and every thing. Isn’t it comforting this notion of each and every thing though nothing might be the final and actual expression of it that nothing at the center of something alive and burning green then mint, blue then shale, gray and gray into violet into luminous dusk into dust then scattered now gone. But what is the use now of this narrow ray, this door ajar the narrow path canopied in dense wood calling what of the striated purposelessness in lapidary shading and line. To move on, to push forward, to take the next step, to die. The circles grow large and ripple in the hatch-marked forever the circle on the horizon rolling over and over into paint into the not near, the now far, the distant long-off line of daylight. That light was my enemy and one great source of agony one great solace in paint and brotherhood the sky and grass. The fragrant hills spoke in flowering tones I could hear the gnarled cut stumps tearing the sky, eating the sun. The gnarled cut stumps tearing the sky, eating the sun the fragrant hills spoke in flowering tones I could hear one great solace in paint and brotherhood the sky and grass. That light was my enemy and one great source of agony into the not near, the now far, the distant long-off line of daylight the circle on the horizon rolling over and over into paint. The circles grow large and ripple in the hatch-marked forever. To move on, to push forward, to take the next step, to die. What of the striated purposelessness in lapidary shading and line the narrow path canopied in dense wood calling but what is the use now of this narrow ray, this door ajar. Into luminous dusk into dust then scattered now gone green then mint, blue then shale, gray and gray into violet that nothing at the center of something alive and burning though nothing might be the final and actual expression of it. Isn’t it comforting this notion of each and every thing the great burning orb installed at the center of each and every thing making so much more of itself here than where it signals. The deep abiding sun touching down and making its impression and yellow, yellows are the tonality of work and bread. To feel these hues down deep, feel color wax and wane now to think of the silver and the almost blue in pewter. These starry nights alone and connected alive at the edge the sky, the moon, the many heavenly forms the sheer vertical act of feeling caught up in it. To be held tight, wound tighter in the act of seeing the gemstone brushstrokes in rays and shimmers. The night sky, the deep sense of space, actual bodies of light and the toil and worry and animal fear always with us wondrous and strange companion to all our days. To wonder and to dream and to look up at it to go out underneath it all above and sparkling to step into it as into a large surf in late August. The animal proximity of another and of nigh. Ah, the sun is here too in the polar region of night in the time of pictures and refracted light the warmth of the mind reflected in a dark time and let us never forget indigo and the warmth of that. The dark is not evil for it has indigo and cobalt inside at least what the old books called science or bowed down to. The dark is close to doubt and therefore close to the sun but perhaps a depth that outshines clarity and is true. The darkness bears a shine as yet unpunished by clarity but felt things exist in shadow, let us reflect. Inside all life seen and felt and all the atomic pieces too the ample evidence of the sun inside all life the homing action of geese and wood mice father, and further, the migration of things. To toil and to reflect and to home and to paint to correspond, to be in equanimity with organic stuff like in the middle of the flower I call your name. Nothing truer to the good feelings that vibrate within there might be nothing greater than this to be in some way related by one’s actions in the world. O to be useful, of use, to the actual seen thing. The sun touches deeper than thought leaves shine in the body and in the head alike what our fathers called the good, what better celebration. What the ancients called peace, no clearer example the broken light refracted through leaves. That the sun can do this to everything inside that the sun can do this to us, every one of us now that the white ray in the distant tree beacons. Nor is questioning color even useful now nor to imagine answers would be the only destination to not be naive and think of silly answers only. Of eyes and smiles, of eyes and affection heal me and grant me laughter’s bounty. Or if you can indeed hear what I might say O, dear heaven, if you are indeed that the leafy vine twisting and choking the tree this inward spiral of whoop ass and vision. Or why am I I inside this empty arboretum saying, who and how am I made better through struggle nestled into our portion beneath the bird’s migration that we take our rest at the end of the grove is this what you intended, Vincent.

I dreamed this mortal part of mine Was metamorphosed to a vine, Which crawling one and every way Enthralled my dainty Lucia. Methought her long small legs and thighs I with my tendrils did surprise; Her belly, buttocks, and her waist By my soft nervelets were embraced. About her head I writhing hung, And with rich clusters (hid among The leaves) her temples I behung, So that my Lucia seemed to me Young Bacchus ravished by his tree. My curls about her neck did crawl, And arms and hands they did enthrall, So that she could not freely stir (All parts there made one prisoner). But when I crept with leaves to hide Those parts which maids keep unespied, Such fleeting pleasures there I took That with the fancy I awoke; And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine More like a stock than like a vine.

It was such a lovely day Till I stumbled in the way Of a van that carries vinegar to stores. When I glared up at the man— Operator of the van— He said, “Vinegar, it never rains but pours!” Now a skunk was standing by. And I thought that I would cry From the vinegar that sprayed and soaked my clothes, When the driver kindly yells, “Watch that animal. It smells!”— And the skunk ran off, a hankie to her nose.

Vinegrowers dig up dig under the darkhoured watch, depth for depth, you read, the invisible one commands the wind to stay in bounds, you read, the Open Ones carry the stone behind the eye, it recognizes you, on a Sabbath.

there are fat wet vines creeping into my house through the pipes and through the walls gentle as blue flames they curl into my living there is ice in my attic sugar on my tile I am present and useless like a nose torn from a face and set in a bowl when I saw God I used the wrong pronouns God bricked up my mouthhole his fists were white as gold there were roaches in my beard now I live like a widow every day a heave of knitting patterns and sex toys my family speaks of me with such pride noonesh to roghane they say his bread is in oil I thank them for that and for their chromosomes most of which have been lovely I am lovely too my body is hard and choked with juice like a plastic throat stuffed with real grapes my turn-ons include Ovid and fake leather my turn- offs have all been ushered into the base- ment I’ll drink to them and to any victory the vines are all growing toward the foot of my bed I am waiting for them to come under the covers I am the only person still in this house there is no one here to look away

Under Venus the sugared wound, the heart-strung-up, the viola d’amore. Under Venus the Pliny-prescribed, the horsehair-hanked — not plucked, tugged — the singly sung (catgut kidney-cuffs the caterwaul, a knockback to the viola bastarda). Kittenish! A scalloped flirtatious border — florid cordial pansies (candied adoration).Violaodorata. Parfait d’Amourish.

Exchange in greed the ungraceful signs. Thrust The thick notes between green apple breasts. Then the shadow of the devil descends, The violent space cries and angel eyes, Large and dark, retreat in innocence and in ice. (Run sister run–the Bugga man comes!) The violent space cries silently, Like you cried wide years ago In another space, speckled by the sun And the leaves of a green plum tree, And you were stung By a red wasp and we flew home. (Run sister run–the Bugga man comes!) Well, hell, lil sis, wasps still sting. You are all of seventeen and as alone now In your pain as you were with the sting On your brow. Well, shit, lil sis, here we are: You are I and this poem. And what should I do? should I squat In the dust and make strange markings on the ground? Shall I chant a spell to drive the demon away? (Run sister run–the Bugga man comes!) In the beginning you were the Virgin Mary, And you are the Virgin Mary now. But somewhere between Nazareth and Bethlehem You lost your name in the nameless void. “O Mary don’t you weep don’t you moan” O Mary shake your butt to the violent juke, Absorb the demon puke and watch the white eyes pop, (Run sister run–the Bugga man comes!) And what do I do. I boil my tears in a twisted spoon And dance like an angel on the point of a needle. I sit counting syllables like Midas gold. I am not bold. I cannot yet take hold of the demon And lift his weight from you black belly, So I grab the air and sing my song. (But the air cannot stand my singing long.)

A garland to fend off the dizzies. A garland to keep the quinsy at bay. March closes the seeded umbilicus. April opens the musty secundina. Equinox the half-melt rot. Easter the thin asquintable light.

You can’t have nothing clean. I scrubbed like a crazy woman at Isom’s clothes that first week and here they come off the line, little black stripes wherever I’d pinned them up or hung them over—coal dust settles on the clothesline, piles up like a line of snow on a tree branch. After that, I wiped down the clothesline every time, but no matter, you can’t get it all off. His coveralls is stripy with black and gray lines, ankles of his pants is ringed around, like marks left by shackles. I thought I’d die that first week when I seen him walk off to the mine, black, burnt-looking marks on his shirt over his shoulders, right where wings would of folded.

It was a matter of wearing gloves well while lunching, while conquering Dubrovnik; of, no one would care how, evading Hell. Diverse employments made gentlemen tick: Christmas turkeys; circulating trophies; pedestal stacked upon pedestal. Today silence has come to see what no one sees, it’s always grim at the start of the play. Fellows, who wait à propos their intros clawing at the panels, such shrill tigers, thrive unthreading the hems of the heroes. Friends of our late friend are minor-leaguers never to be called up but good as types, people who will hook bras to the flagpole, bake chocolate for a gray stranger  ...    She wipes away red records of the stocks you stole  ... Yesterday, books were thrown from the third floor, out the window, they sank in pairs like shoes, and I watch violet swords on a white shore, blade-tip laid across blade-tip, where it snows.