Quintessence of Dust

All my days Is this the final moment then that all my days have come to? the days that stretch their listless light to long dark nights in restless sheets with stains and dreams of crowded streets past well worn shops that beckon... preparing a small space for me beside the day old bread, or hanging on a butcher's rack disembowel'd and display'd; I find I am, though, unafraid. It seems I've failed to reckon... to put away these childish things, or would it even matter? you pluck me from the bargain tray and think "I could be fatter!" Would you take me in your home again to serve me on a platter? And would it matter after all to toss my bones so carelessly in an unkempt corner of your attic, toss them with a clatter amid unremember'd debris, watch the dust mites scatter? Or stretch me out across your sink like a ragged dishcloth spent in frantic grips that turn and twist that twist and rinse unclean. the pale kings pass the horsemen's git their silent k

In the apple orchard On the dense, fleshy beach a young boy fingers his brazen diaper it drinks the tide water waiting A young woman browns in the burnt sunlight the tide retreats unconcerned even with itself August has started without me trade winds betray their boatsmen choosing instead to move inland By the house on the hill a clothesline full of downside shirts wave a toweling jib in the dancing wind The last time we met the night was drenched in rain you said all we had to do was give the wind our name I wondered if it were true In the apple orchard an old man lingers savoring the gritty gnarled leavings the pickers disregard

the leaves are lighted by the sun they dangle lightly as from a thread the wind speaks easy through the trees to ants and bees and dragonflies the beatles dig among the roots their leavings seed the loam this is a lazy day and I just watch you sleep and dream in the lighted room awakening to the rhythm of your breath the breeze plays gently with your hair I watch your small breasts rise