on poetics, pt 1

at first i see her, the girl in white robe and candle stick
held in her hands the kind with the little hook,
there is a horse in the background of this
and a stable, too, her in riding gear

is it me? what is this heaven, idyllic
fine too as the protean layer beneath the shed
moltings of crustacean exoskeleton raw, caught firmament of
the body not skin not yet new shell, not hard not soft
diaphanous, solid hardly actual protection this gift,
this dropped line delicate and real
as that

that is these shores, some Avalon
when first he boats me across

the oldest operable ferry in the states
long making crossing out of

the immediate black blur
of tremendous line of
time i felt,
staring back
the feeling
that weight

it crouches in the corner by the closet
when first i settle into my room,
historic hotel i can barely fall
to sleep a night a whole week
before this night comes
for the haunt of it all

i read about minty
moses, revel again
at the places on this shore
i stayed, the language written
in this land i yrs ago was already
being read by, the truth the whole
capricious mistake of only whim
that could come from wonder,

i now know reverence, too.

i read nikki giovani and study
the lighting of the room when the
sun falls and the variables of white
and gray it makes in the morning
when it returns,

forgetting the intro
to lorde when i
w coffee read her,

make the cross of protection
before i sleep, in bed so close
to the closet, meantime
back to the morning
how the ladies in
kitchen working
not 5 minutes
of me sitting
out from

mention the Ghost.

i return to the room
and make a fire.
for this exorcism,
these children &
broods & birds
& lovers in the
i shake these rafters.

it is a not cold
no dust

for this i
the only thing else
i have

left to give~

at the whitehaven hotel in february, the yr my daughter is 19 mos old


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