And it steps as it steps,
through the high grass fields.
And it weeps while it walks,
like it always will.
When it laughs,
when it cries,
it’s explosive.
And the burden,
gets a bit more implosive.

The stroll of it’s step,
says it’s drunk.
And the shine in it’s eye,
says it’s high.
The whisper in it’s words,
says it’s dreaming.
And the curve of it’s lips,
right at the tips,
says it’s scheming.

The way it goes on,
it’s delirious.
It’s drum is a beat,
walked on by feet,
that won’t do to be naught,
but mysterious.
The taste on it’s tongue,
says it’s displeased.
The fire of it’s wants,
says it won’t be appeased.

The steps of it‘s dance,
are contagious.
The sweep of it’s words,
advantageous.
As it walks through the high grass,
in a field never tilled.
And it rambles like a madman,
for it always will.
The madness in it’s mind,
says it’s seeing.
The high grass before,
when it was something more.
And the memory,
makes sure it keeps breathing.

i.
(It is easier, near sleep To follow the slant of each
  drop grouped in the base of one near hymn- a wingside
       Meditation; a bow falls then restarts
          And through this
          through eyes closed and clean pillowed promise,
      tomorrow.–But First.
      now, in the night
      in the bedside shade of one candle)

ii.
What instrument
does it take for you?  to lift one and return to the Old Country,
       not war-torn Russia but to
      Hackensack to the paper prints of her     My
          Grandmother young and dark in this way:
               there is one-
          The Crepe-Paper          dress
               as though she wore a Maypole and the streamers
               wound around her waist, her curls, her fingers
          Look at this one young and wide-wild-wry-eyed
               the cups in their saucers, her eyes
               in their saucers The sockets kept
      and cleaned by the moment.
          When she lights the candle how can we not
      hang our heads
               at least a Little

iii.
Do you remember-      the fear in that kitchen candle Yellow
      Not like of wax, of corn But
      cloth stars kept
      in the spring sink.
          I could not sleep when it sat there,
          while our eyes closed and It stayed
          alone and lit.
      Now in the dream-velvet not a
          tune, but the dripping arrangement of my house
          pooling in the sink.
               a handle of wax in glass

iv.
      the bees in the light swam,
      their last buzz and collected
      in the sink         In what melts in
          ribbons with the fear of waking
          in wax.

Requests a kneading. Back bent over’s a
spined melon, a
          cool shape coursed
          warm under hands. Might slice in
sections and guide towards plotting points
          (The melon; the cutting of the melon, the bowl of
          salted melon flesh and its
          soaking innards and its soaking casing).

The bump tucked
up near the nape is touched, is then spread and
the sting’s thinned
          how a bleached
          scalp breathes in milk.

That fall she slept among the blueberry
and heather tangles. Waking when her limbs
had ripened to force a protest from her bed—
snapping branches stabbing through her visions.
Years from now he will excuse himself—
find comfort repeating his version: how she
approached him, naked, full of questions,
her green scent a curiosity.

I do not wander fields
that yearn for sun.
Rather, those that stand
like the fall of leaves.

It is a grievous occasion,
for brown mice cannot find
their grey mice.
Blind to the terrible, terrible.

Stepping softly my feet part the outlying ferns that
          Slowly
dance next to the rotted trailing fence my leathered hand
          embraced
long ago and now- like memories that are one and the same
          upon
my heart, which has conformed for this day in a new light
          the
dreams of my past, now reconciled and turned like the fence.

And do I dare embrace the branches of this singleton
          tree
blowing in the wind like the delicate beauty
          of my past.
She whom my heart will not let me forget yet what is
          Now gone:

Dressed in a crown of green, a gown of Splendor’s
          Richness,
She is beacon unto me as desperation cries out in complete
          Fullness.
I see not ancient limbs that call to me at this time
          And how!
But faithfulness as I draw nearer and closer to my
          Once
Abandoned home. Still so full of the fullness of life as
          always.
And with shaking hands like the wind through your hair
          Now
I remember my buried woes, a dream that failed in life,
          a…

I tempt future emotions that are sure to come and
          place
My hand upon the soft bark to see the youth that once was
          where
A lost engagement was swept away in the tempest of my
          youth
I am he, who dreamed too much what ought not come to be
          passed.

I sat in the gallery café,
amidst the clink of knife
on plate, ice in glass, the wash of
words, a parent to a child, one lover to
another, and I wrote you.
I wrote you slowly, fearful of speed,
and what it might set loose, considering
each word for its nuance, its possible subtext,
and I re-read all of them over and over and
I even paused at the blue mailbox,
wondering how hard it would be
to fetch back the card once inside.
But, now, a week, a few days more,
the card is still here;
It rests leaden on my heart,
solid, thick with years.