Coming to the Festival of the God of Boundaries
Helios the mute, the keen in Panâs knife.
Some time critical at the bending stream, where he cuts the reeds
at staggered lengths and with the beeswax
begins to bind them.
Beneath the humanly shaped air is an animalâs
report of feeling.
Then for the first time saying
or
.
Turning your instrument toward the tree, all the training comes up
as something just below your skin, yet within the business
of the sun. You could be readily alone,
you could be difficult to reach or speak to,
at present included in the subsoil production, where Mercury
scythes the head off Ioâs warden, Argus, whose every hundred eyes
under the messengerâs messenger voice
caves to a slumberous feeling.
In such a beautiful piece
for reeds, it is all ears under the architected
bridal veil, our trinkets working to the surface of earth.
The earth, too,
and moreso tidal, tidal in the congregate
shifts of grazing, tidal in the turn of plow, itself a substance
for the moonâs compactments.
Her own voice frightens her. In lowing hearing herself low.
Her father feeds her grass, swats a fly
from her eyelash.
The border completely herbaceous. Quantities of sun
later to be crushed from borage.
To wedge a story inside a story. To cut the trunk radially.
Argus, whose every hundred eyes heard Syrinx running
into sound, Syrinx being chased by everywhere.
Staggered lengths of story.
And does the god have a mind of his own,
Pan in the needles, the unthinkable pine wreath,
a ubiquity darkly seductive of breeze?
Along her various edges, between obvious and audible and covetous,
the rarely dissected textures, fog is condensing into water
on the hardened forewings (shards)
of darkling beetles.
For the reinstatement of a hundred eyes, the covert feathers
snapping into courtship.
Now you: you now.
If affluence
speaks into the mouth, if the very long dead exceed our energy?
In the room adjoining the living room, the offer to play
the nocturne over.
You now: now youâ
Makes an Arrangement
Of many stems, the water, lukewarm, the water whose irenic ladder down
to a slant clip in going giving to the stem a greener opening
who gives a period
and gives to live in lost continuation
of oneself, sticks caught
in peace of stones, in clouds shaped as a windpipe
at a no more foreign accent
true in the woods
there is in trillium, a wild against the skin
and body the very gesture could be true, body drawn truce
in the pencil-looks of life, from nature
drawn and made of waterâdrawn of rush, copper, saltâof flowers the earth
why not bestows
what makes me know
in a faucet hue, could silver
warm to be a hue (to bird down, beauty, hide)
time and water rooming
in the ewer base, then you (good
god) is true, and futures on the glass of flower cooler, and past,
a glass (in time comes in), a second-seeded eucalyptus, and drops
on glass, and split-off thoughts, on cooler door,
diminutives of massâ
the molecules, the hand-shaped streaks
Return of the Native to the Widespread Hour
In her yellow caravan, the feather merchant has sold out of wares.
Ambitious only to feel her coatâs inner lining, in performing one
normal action backward, she sublimes, she goes beneath
the oldest stone, she greets the interruptive
shake before duration.
Breathe on a harpsichord, and it will sound.
Sink a chunk of salt on your tongue to name the ocean.
The swanâs distinctive contour will pinpoint the sky.
So her resources are wanting to reach her:
knowing with a red cloth tied at her neck
where leafage is system to leaves.
Midlander
this region that moves the voice is made of ears
so that a region we are born to
sounds like listening and we seem even older
when we speak this wayâlike a glow of clay compressedâlight
as the hiddenness of the nonapparent
sun being wind along the leavesâamong pieces of recognitionâ
bootprints
James Holland
Erika Bradshaw
Brad Strickland
Desmond Seward
Timothy Zahn
Edward S. Aarons
Lynn Granville
Kenna Avery Wood
Fabrice Bourland
Peter Dickinson