Predawn and a Verandah of a Hundred Years
~The past, dead water of my eyes~
Remembered night flowers
footholds that became vanished waters
wet wet night of remembered tears,
and predawn stirred.
like a prairie’s sigh rustles
under fading stars,
and my heart turned.
In the dense dense air,
my heart broke again and again.
The air, still — as still as fate lines
in any season in anyone’s hand —
sat on dewdrops moulded
into balled silences,
each one a reflected
chilled dream of fecundity
twisted out of a dead mans eyes.
My own eyes swam in dead water
that once rang to
calls of rainbows of fishes,
sang to herons and wildflowers
and watched wet wet nights
gurgle and softly sigh,
drink up days full of dreams
born in nights musky groin.
They held me, those Doric pillars,
massively strangely luminous,
so much like objects of worship.
In that hour of departing undead,
they held me,
as pain, like bitter treacle,
dripped from balconies
hung with sad vacuums
and stunned sleep of turtle doves.
O broken hearts,
sad and swollen,
of serrated Monstera leaves!
Such bright love, such moonlit moments
sang here once
like shiny green tambourines!
And songs of unborn children
scented with sea and cloud.
No spontaneous birdsong yet,
no lace shadow-wrappings.
Gipsy morning I want you so much!
I want you so much to open your arms,
let loose galloping color those
tremblings that whip death to life —
garnet snapdragons, cannas aflame like
tongues of taut desire
and marigolds’ saffron knife-smell.
but a dormant glory promise,
— mango, papaya, hibiscus dunes —
blue hands against blue cloth of pre-dawn,
blue sounds like primordial breath,
blue-grey embroideries of grasses,
they were all insomniac outlines watching
just watching, what was and was not,
what was to be,
yet to come wishing waters
that defy noontime moons,
air cut in lapis which calls
dying constellations that eternally
fall like dim magnolias on day’s golden breast.