Poetry

“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning

On the quietest days,
when the sea just hovers in the background
and the light is no particular color
I forget summer,

Inside
 that mud-hive, that gas-sponge,
  that reeking
   leaf-yard, that rippling

Is this the very face
of an angry God, or simply
his instrument?

Ingres drew her
with rudimentary breasts
and pre-pubescent wings
barely sketched in.

We picnic by these bleached ruins
a few miles from the village
where we bought this rough
bread and cheese, this bottle

On nights when you can’t sleep
I think you open the doo
to the sky

      The sun rises late in this Southern county. And, since the first thing I do when I wake up is go out into the world, I walk here along a dark road. There are many trees. Also, shrubs and vines—sumac, the ivies, honeysuckle.

        There isn’t anything in this world but mad love. Not in this world. No tame love, calm love, mild love, no so-so love. And of course, no reasonable love. There are a hundred paths through the world that are easier. But, who wants...

Coming home with the last load I ride standing
on the tongue of the trailer, behind the tractor
in its hot exhaust, lank with sweat