1630 Nature poems

The trees have sex, Teach, Focus. Tohu Bohu Chaos in a green light. Alone again. How alone I twist at the end of thought when illness is forgot and the speaker is punched on the bark on the soft models. The old abbot looked at us and laughed. He loved electronic gadgets for his tomb. You were as beautiful as six almonds as beautiful as the naked foot of the messenger of peace. You sat in a corner of the page.

Working the water-line the apple haunts the edge of— A shard of selenite is said to clear negativity. Like a stained glass window. Against the rules, we coupled on your grandmother’s floor. Write it the way a Painted Lady explosion erases it.  Five minutes ago. Thus, you grow faint like bioluminescence. Pouring what I know into small vials.  Back and forth. Blur the field to include not-seeing. When we were a potted plant or something. Halved pomegranate knocked against a bowl. Thus, is every tree wild? Caretaker, so what if they do not look back at you—

The cost of flight is landing. On this warm winter day in the southwest, down here on the edge of the border I want to go to France where we all came from where the Occident was born near the ancient caves near Lascaux. At home I’m only sitting on the lip of this black hole, a well that descends to the center of the earth. With a big telescope aimed straight down I see a red dot of fire and hear the beast howling. My back is suppurating with disease, the heart lurches left and right, the brain sings its ditties. Everywhere blank white movies wait to be seen. The skylark dove within inches of the rocks before it stopped and rose again. God’s toes are buried deep in the earth. He’s ready to run. But where?

The body wicks away its nest, leaves sediment. In salt the silhouette of a wolf or a sheepshead. Who knows who steals bones if  not the connoisseur of  bones, and who drops a crank behind the body if  not the one who drains the river bed? In unrest, buzzards. Or a flat line. The probability of  sparrows a spark between two enemy pistons. A dirigible built solely for the grave.

Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu! Farewell soft mistrel of the early year! Ah! ’twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night’s dull ear. Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird who sings of pity best: For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow and to love!

I ran into the afterlife. No fluffy white clouds. Not even stars. Only sky dark as the inside of a movie theater at three in the afternoon and getting bigger all the time, expanding at terrific speed over the car which was disappearing, flattening out empty as the fields on either side. It was impossible to think under that rain louder than engines. I turned off the radio to listen, let my head fill up until every bone was vibrating—sky. Twice, trees of lightning broke out of the asphalt. I could smell the highway burning. Long after, saw blue smoke twirling behind the eyeballs, lariats doing fancy rope tricks, jerking silver dollars out of the air, along with billiard cues, ninepins. I was starting to feel I could drive forever when suddenly one of those trees was right in front of me. Of course, I hit it— branches shooting stars down the windshield, poor car shaking like a dazed cow. I thought this time for sure I was dead so whatever was on the other side had to be eternity. Saw sky enormous as nowhere. Kept on driving.

Recalcitrant elephants begin to attack. The angry young males of murdered mothers. Any Martian could see it how we did it The historian of   the future is amazed. So much feeling once in so many bodies. But maybe they were different didn’t think or feel that much

Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us, cover us with your pools of fir.

Like columns of mist in some temple to a vanished god, the late cloud-stacks mass over a June reduced to the sickly greens of the Norfolk broads; and, above the steam-soiled mess where earthworms grovel, where lumpish toads set up the resistances of grace, where badgers undermine the tarred road, I watch the canvas of that underpainted sky through a jellied glass of vermouth while the gravestone crops up and an oily wind steels itself to the south. There certain winged creatures from a century misplaced on shelves take the day down with a moaning chant known to themselves.

The Glass Frogs you can't see us not like those golden frogs flashing their beauty because we're not here pretend we're not here you can't eat us we'd taste like clear air we're transparent invisible until night when stars pass through us moonlight flows into us we start to sing we need to sing we love to sing sing sing sing