Sky

I woke up this morning,
and the sky was blue--

blue like the glittering tarsier eyes
of cornfed princesses lointaines,
bluer than deep breaths
or mountains.

I said, The sky--
has it always been blue?
So this is why
people are always saying it
is blue.
And the grass, I think,
might be a little green,
just at very edges of its sharp blades
and at the tips,
like alien blood on tiny lances.

Blue sky, green grass--
how strange and now
I must learn to live among such things,
learn again to live,
like abandoning a book
half-read.

And these are lovely--
but I will miss the grass, gray as ashes,
and the hideous beauty
of the blood-red sky.

Late

In spring, the orchid
spreads out its skirts in defiance
of the seeing sun.
So, too, the lotus turns its face
in summer to God
from the muddy waters.
The chrysanthemum
conquers the eyes in autumn,
bold, indelicate,
settling into its due:
adult confidence.
But I reserve my judgment;
I watch with small hope
to see if in late winter,
at last, the plum tree will bloom.

already

I do it again
and again and again and
again and this time
like I always have
and like at no other time
I want and don't want to stop
She knows what to do
because somehow she figures
she knows right from wrong
It's really not that simple
It's complicated.
Of course, she doesn't think so--
and fuck, I like that.
Already I choose my words
slowly, already
her firm-formed disapproval
guides my decisions
already her pity calls
for me to serve her
and shames me for serving her
and makes me delight in shame

And so are you

Your voice is so beautiful
Your voice is so beautiful
Your voice is so   beautiful

Матрёшка

Inside me, I am,
and I look just the same,
but different,
blurrier, less careful
about the details,
and so, so small.
And there are many hands
that could open me up,
take me apart and scatter me,
in pieces, across
the living room carpet.
So many pieces, and which of them
is me, and where am I
located?

Tanka

Today's sky is flat;
the clouds lie close, uncurving.
I stare and wonder:
Is it flat for all who see,
or is it only my eyes?

Reflection

i cringed
iced myself over against the razor i saw coming
ready to stitch myself back together again

like clenching my fists
or tightening my stomach
would keep my blood from bleeding

like forcing my eyes to stay open
would forbid tears

and i edged around it
clearing away the rubble from everything else
until i had to approach
until there was nothing else left to face

and i don't know why i thought that it is what it isn't

but nothing burst slashing blazing burning
when i looked inside
nothing came back at me but my own
reflection

Glacier

A glacier carves the land,
diverting the paths of rivers,
moving silt from its place of origin.
Mountains stand in sharper relief
than before.
Lakes are left to fill valleys
that weren't there.
New vegetation grows. New animals come
to haunt that vegetation,
and all that is new is beautiful,
and all that is gone is dead,
and the bones of the dead lie in the mountains
and under the silt.
Though the glacier recedes,
the land is changed and cannot revert;
it can be changed again, but the change
cannot be undone,
and all that is gone is dead.
And ten years have passed since you closed your door,
and death still lives in the bones of the mountain.

Tanka

I open my eyes
and see the creatures in me,
all of us trapped here.
Surely this body is mine,
and surely it is not mine.

Sleeve

Today everything seems more human--
the sweats sweatier, the hairs hairier,
the fats more lipid and quivering.
The all-seeing sun through the leftover raindrops
steams the oil out of us all,
and it rises, a steady mist of humanity
moving slowly to the sky,
a rich exchange for sunshine.
All is dulled by the tiresome heat,
the tiresome steam, the tiresomeness of humanity--
the sweat, the hair, the fat, the waste,
and age beats down on us like the sun,
But I turn my face against my sleeve
and breathe in the smoke that congregates there,
the smoke that Prometheus gave us
in defiance of the gods.