-to Wallace Stevens
I.
would be
the end of endings and beginnings
when the heart is a trout pushing upstream
pre-life (life) post-life (life) pre-life (life)
an eternity granted to be alright
the walls holding in the olympic-sized blue
of my self would crack-crumble
and out go the memorable memories
as a child I thought all the babies
all the babies were tucked in the middle
in the middle of brides
anymore and instead
curled in the folds
of knowing unknowing
nourished by DNA and what the world makes
I think of the soul slowly rousing
one day it’ll wriggle free (of that too
overturning every wheelbarrow filled with standing water)
II.
I can’t even tell
I don’t know the body
if it has to die or the mind
be denied for the soul
to show itself
poor meaning, there’s not much
to go on, not in nature,
the ocean, say,
pummeling rocks like a blind drunk
or in philosophical taxidermy
where being (here) then not
are gutted and stuffed
their eyelids smoothed out their bones
bent in repose
arranged for tourists in judgment day tableau
and the bear cub shall ride the bobcat
into heaven and the beaver lie down with the fox
look how the deer track valentines
in blue snow
with targets painted over their hearts
III.
your sighs
my torso
damp and covered with touches
are sensational aren’t they
the way we cave in shuddering
shake our heads no no
to empty rooms
plant white roses
first we’re in love with our selves
being loved
the velvet rope and chamber
the wet lips, long limbs
our skin warmed again
to the scent of nutmeg and apricots
the body is the body
its longings pure to know
the finale of seem
when quiet as a deer to the saltlick
and soft as dying in your sleep
the soul would creep in like a thief