Clock Poem

Evil's heartbeat
that matches mine,
innocent no more than, more than there will be
any more when this runs out, wonders that must
cease some day behind our backs,
some night behind our heads and in our blood
and under our eyes. There will be
no reruns, replays, false starts and
start-agains; starting again is only
finishing faster -- what is fast, the speed of light?
There will be no coming back, or going
back, once we go; once we go,
we are gone and there will be
no more, and after that,
only more
of the same.
This is the countless-beat
heartbeat of evil,
Time, the First Evil,
primeval heart.

Train-Time

I can see them in my dreams, all the time,
in my dreams,
the train tracks -- witless scarecrow roads
that wait. Time,
time is always late
until it goes.
I don't wish on stars anymore,
I wish on trains.
Listen on any day for the sound of them --
they are like crows; they project their souls,
and if you listen, anywhere,
you can hear a train. I hear them.
Time is not vocal
but I hear it, too. I must have good ears,
at least in my dreams.
The slashing, rhythmical, shrieking steam,
toward, onward, on to, headed for,
headlong, hell-bent, westward, break-neck,
grinding, frozen bolt of night,
blinded, howling at the light --
open your ears when you're in sleep,
or anywhere.
And I see them all the time in dreams,
train tracks, waiting, listening.
One day I'll see the train go by,
reach out to the reckless speed before it's gone.
Maybe catch a handle fast
-- any train may be the last --
hold on. Hold, hold,
on.

Almost Enough

At the very edge we stand
ants on a crumb
and look down.
The jagged rock is vertically segmented,
ledged, harsh and brown,
marbled with marble at random
layer on layer on layer on layer
of time and greatness God cannot change
now, cannot alter in body or soul,
can only admire and fly away
whole,
in a dream of dinosaur bones.

To look off the edge is to be a bird,
watching life's continuation below,
spikes of green pines,
lakes and streams,
noises rising to supplement sight,
throwing showers of barbed light
to see the mushrooms
under the trees.
Pine needles and mountains
the grey hawk
sees,
and dinosaur bones.

And we were to find existence
from blue wind and height,
hawks' dreams of the speed of sound,
the legend of fright
on the earth's fingertips reaching
to we know not what in the blue
shattered, weeping sky.
It was almost enough, my God,
and all you've done is try
for perfection in blue green imperfect domes,
cliffs, craggy hawks,
dinosaur bones.

Perspective

This is not a dream.
I can really fly.
The lake of liquid diamond
where I drank the magic potion
that gave me wings
and gave me flight
is now but a spot of silver
a golden pea
a drop of dew.

A gust of warm air
blows me skyward
still more skyward
than before.
Yet in that wind's
a scent of earth
earth smell even in the sky
no matter how far
I can go.

It is not so great
to fly.

Migrating

I am only migrating
through this country and out again
towards a greater desolation
than that from which I came.
Some days I am a gypsy
lying on sweet green grass or yellow fields
under a sky wide and full of sun;
some days I am a ragged dog
barking in alleys
among trash and empty bottles;
and some days I nearly forget -
but I can feel this body planning,
gathering forces,
signing documents;
all my time is borrowed time.
And one day
this vast stretch of gold and green
corn and sparkiling cities at night,
curving mountain roads and billions
of miles of sky, and even the stars
will exile me,
and even my blood plans
mutiny, and even my bones
wish me gone.

Only the Night Is Blind

Air rishes past the bat's eyes,
short fur blows against brown skin
in sonic dark,
in warm summer skies.
Bones stretch across velvet wings
umbrella-like, curving out,
bending back to finger claws,
moving as wide as oars in thin water
of humid night, without stars.
Frogs,
slippery shapes, hunch in grass
spongy with dew, their skins glistening,
stretching over two back ridges,
down to a point between
inward-folded legs;
cinnamon-filled
unblinking eyes.
Cotton sound of wings
and the diamond mouth of a bat,
too large to understand,
spoon-shaped ears,
thin, sharp teeth;
and the frog's feet
unfold to meet the bat.
Gleam of wet skin kicking space,
pivoting wings, and moving blackness,
mewing frog cry, like a kiss,
and night, changeless
and memoryless.