Sonnet Sequence: Ariō

(Here I am!) Why must you suffer
like this when you have finally found
him, your lord? The sea was rougher
than you had ever seen; the sound
battered you: and was this only
to see him in sadness, lonely
and dying of hunger, too late
to save him? Had it been your fate,
on this island you would gladly
have fed him what your hands could make
and kept him warm and soothed his ache.
Does he doubt you? Oh, how badly
you wanted to be with him here! -
and now it's real. Stay very near...

It were best if you could follow
immediately after to
heaven's second world, the hollow
and fragile shell of all you knew
left behind you - but you wonder:
who would pray for him or thunder
his final words across the sea?
(Is nothing left of you but me?)
To enlighten and forgive him,
you'll beg the gods, you'll intercede
for him, with every thought, you'll plead:
and for this you will outlive him,
for how will his last words survive
if unremembered? Therefore thrive.

All that lay within him perished
inside his mind, still unexpressed,
and no matter how you cherished
the things he whispered and confessed,
there are many you will never
hear at all, though you endeavor
to gather them. No matter how
you age, the years from then to now,
births that breathe and deaths that stifle,
you'll never see his figure bend
to you or hear him, calling, send
you to fetch some toy or trifle.
Is tyranny the only cause
of pain, or is it our own flaws?

Sonnet Sequence: Новогиреево

Tops of gray-white stone are islands
above the green, green sea of trees,
and beneath these man-made highlands
the children swing and skin their knees,
pensioners sweep up the gravel
in the streets with brooms that travel
along the gutters with the scrape
of sticks with ropes to give them shape,
and a dove rebukes and grumbles.
I only see the clouds above;
below, I see the leaves, the dove,
and my feet on iron that crumbles
from ancient fire escapes to fall
and consequently poison all.

This is not a world of playing,
of sweeping or rebuking birds,
but a sanctum for obeying
the soul’s most edifying words.
Though I see that in our cities,
salary men and committees
are working without knowing why,
the money doesn’t come this high,
and the crumbling, old constructions
are fading dreams that used to mean
an often-echoed style machine
stuttered out its cheap productions.
In Moscow, only silence stays
above the trees on summer days.

Sonnet Sequence: Honest

You all keep telling me how honest I
am, and I guess it's cute when I unlock
my mouth and truth comes bluntly out. You mock
me, for I am not honest; I would try,
if I were honest, not to cheat or lie,
to say, "Don't bother racing with the clock,
'cause I'm indifferent" and (to his shock?)
"I'd rather read than kiss you, dear; goodbye"

because to be that close to him would be
a lie, and I--so honest!--would be sick
if I were forced to try it. You must see
that I am done. The lovely smile I pick
to wear today--ironic--walks with me
along the aisles of pantomime and brick,

and we are glad to be alone. My place
inside the world--the world itself--conspires
to make me ill. Though part of me desires
to fool you, for I want, in any case,
for you to like me (and I know that's base),
there's part of me revolted by the wires
I pull. I cannot understand how choirs
of people praise me. On my brazen face

was not there written something? In my eyes
could nothing be divined? I have no gift
for lying, as you know, but somehow lies
come through me. Is it acting? If I sift
a wish ("I love you") out and (too unwise?)
repeat it over, might my feelings shift?

Sonnet Sequence: Alberic the Blond and the Snake Lady (from Vernon Lee)

Luna's princelet opened sleepy eyes on
a rocky island where no man had been.
He was all alone, his sacred prize on
his sunken ship along with all his men.
Lifting up his face from the forgiving
sand, he brushed it from his eyes, from living
and lively yellow curls, and looked around.
A cold, transparent river split the ground
into two and fed the sea. He, bending,
from the unsampled stream took heart and drank.
He followed it along its mossy bank,
wandering for hours through woods and mending
his spirit in the fields through which he passed,
but found no sign of human life. At last,
in the pleasant afternoon, he stumbled
upon a berry patch that scratched the backs
of his gentle hands each time he fumbled
inside it, gathering the reds and blacks
that shone bright as jewels. He persisted:
total victory, to him, consisted
in ignorance of pain. Besides, the prince
did not know what was safe to eat here, since
he had never been allowed to wander
at home among the gardens or been taught
to feed himself on roots. His sword was not
useful for the hunt. He stopped to ponder
his fate and make his plans beneath a tree;
on soft, green grass he slumbered soundlessly.

After days, he came upon a forest,
untouched and denser, darker, tangled more
than the prince had yet seen. Screeching chorused
with croaks of dreadful night-birds when he bore
down on limbs with iron-gloved fists like boulders
and they broke apart. With knees and shoulders
he forced a path; he trampled underbrush;
then roaring as from stripe-skinned tiger plush
or of lions came. He grasped with pity
his two-edged sword and hewed the interlaced
and twisted branches; the resulting waste
filled with sobs as from a vanquished city.
The Knight of Luna asked the wood to stop
its anguish, begged forgiveness with each chop.
"But," the boy insisted, "I continue,
for I must get to Reynold, set him free
from the force that binds him, bone and sinew,
with wild embraces clasp him close to me,
go with him to Sparkling Water Castle,
and her, to whom I am but a vassal,
await with him beside the mossy well.
I will go on, for in this tangled hell
I can sense a fearsome, wondrous power
that surely rules; I'll conquer all his might
as I am surely sworn to do--for I'm a knight--
make him take me home." Our flower,
undaunted, cut his way into the wood.

Behold! Before the prince, a castle stood,
lordly, as if some great Duke might rule it,
upon a plain between two running streams.
Silent rose the portcullis; lights, too, lit
as though by unseen hands. As in his dreams,
the enchanted drawbridge lowered, splintered;
fifes and bugles sounded as he entered,
but nowhere could he see a single wight
to do these things as living humans might.
Alberic went in and found a stable,
storerooms full of arms, and chambers spread
with heavy, velvet covers on each bed.
In the banquet hall, an oaken table
was steaming, savory. A giant chair
stood at the table's head. A cup was there,
full of wine that flushed his pale complexion
the moment that he sipped. A calming voice
called his name with welcoming inflection.
An unseen chorus begged to sing his choice
of motet, and viols played. He quickly
sat, and as he did, the unseen, tickly,
invisible hands filled his plate with sweets,
caressing him. He laughed and swung his feet
from his perch and drank more than was clever.
When he was full, he faced the nearest ghost
and drank the health and fortune of his host.
"I will be your faithful slave forever!"
he swore in fervid gratefulness and laid
his hand upon his sword. He stood and swayed
on his feet, then blushed at his condition
and sought to lie upon the marble floor
in the many carpets. In this mission
he failed; the shining armor that he wore
was unbuckled; pieces of his clothing
were removed. He blushed with guilty loathing
for his unfinished body. Silken robes
were given him. Uncomfortable with probes
from unseen attendants, he turned shyly
and dressed himself. They led him to a couch
of velvet, strewn with roses. With a slouch
almost unbecoming him, he dryly
yawned thankful words again for all the help.
Musicians played; a furry, cold-nosed whelp
snuggled underneath his elbow. Sleeping
was all the prince could think of, so he slept.

When he woke, the setting sun was creeping
behind the trees. In panic, up he leapt.
It had been at least two evenings, surely,
since he'd gone to sleep, for he was purely
and fully energized. He checked his face:
the mirror said he hadn't aged. The pace
of his heartbeat slowed, and he hovered
at it and saw his pupils and therein
the glorious Baronage he hoped to win.
Buckling on his armor, he discovered
he needed help from all those gentle hands
that haunted him and pressed him for demands
to obey. and after he was fully
attired, they hung upon his shapely thigh
such a sword as he was loathe to sully
with blood, for it was perfect. With a sigh
of unhidden longing, he refused it,
asking for his old sword. "You abused it,"
replied the voices, "cutting through the wood.
Refusing gifts like this one when our Good
Lady offers them is disallowing
her hospitality." Then Alberic
the Blond turned paler, wounded to the quick
by his rudeness. Penitent and bowing,
he took the sword the voices bid him take.
My name is Brillamorte. I serve the Snake
could be read upon its steel, imprinted
by hands of worthy craftsmen long ago.
Alberic was nervous, for it hinted
at deviltry--for it is surely so
that the snake has been Our Lord's opponent
since the Fall of Eden, and atonement
can come from turning from the serpent's maw--
but Alberic had sworn. He set his jaw,
thanked the hands, and said, "My Benefactress--
I'd like to see her." No one answered him,
so he explored the castle at his whim.

There were rooms of jewels, masks an actress
or actor might have worn in ancient Greece,
uncounted piles of silver, bolts of fleece,
silk brocade, and velvet, fragrant spices,
undated golden vases, rarities
from the Orient and Persia, ices
of lemon taste and hue, and Charity's
greatest gift to all youths under heaven:
puppies wriggling, happy. There were seven
full stables he could find, a rookery,
of course a kitchen to learn cookery,
falcons, fountains, marble statues, honey.
Inside a tower, on its highest floor,
he found a room like none he'd seen before.
Treasures that could not be bought with money
were there: the instruments that show the road
at sea, a telescope, a magnet-lode,
scrolls, and codices that held the knowledge
of generations. Alberic, who could
read but poorly, thought of boys at college
and envied, sighing softly as he stood
by the window, looking at the teeming
land that stretched beneath him, seeming
enchanted by the boy who watched above.
If Alberic were not obliged by love
to release his most adored companion,
to once again behold his Lady's face,
he'd choose to stay forever in this place.

Looking down, he saw across a canyon
an orchard, and to access it, a bridge
was stretched across the canyon, ridge to ridge.
All this was inside the castle's garden.
The Knight of Luna hurried; he arrived
just as dawn appeared. "I beg your pardon,
O Lovely Orchard"--and the prince contrived
to look innocent as dawn--"for truly,
I should have come here first." And this was true;
the light of fair Aurora flickered through
apples, peaches, pears and plums, and even
through oranges, the flowers and the fruits
appearing both together. Bamboo shoots
grew among narcissus. Surely Steven,
within his glimpse of heaven, saw no sight
as lovely as the orchard in the light
of the morning. Holly leaves and roses
grew up around the borders. In the trees,
birds, more than the prince could count, in poses
fair Venus taught them sang their songs to please
every ear. Their hanging golden cages
brought to mind the masterwork of ages
long past. Not even Hercules, who killed
the horrifying dragon and was skilled
in the arts of war, found his gold apples
in any garden half so sweetly laid.
The most intriguing fountain ever made
stood inside the very middle. Dapples
of sunlight kissed it. It was in the form
of naked maidens--twins--with eyes of storm,
hair of dew and cobweb. Scented waters
they poured from golden pitchers, and the girls
were of silver, glistening like the daughters
of river gods. The water came in whirls
from the channels in the grass; the glancing
of the light--and magic--set them dancing.

And after Alberic had looked his fill
upon this sight, he noticed in the still,
silent grass a tree with almond flowers.
Beneath it lay a sepulcher of white
and creamy marble, carved and gilded, quite
as a queen might lie in, if her powers
could not save her from death. On it he read:
Here is imprisoned on her holy bed
Oriana, Fairy of the Golden Towers,
the most unhappy of all fairy-kind,
for she was condemned by jealous powers
for doing nothing wrong. The prince's mind
was confused, he thought, for as he'd spoken,
the inscription changed like it had woken.
O Knight of Luna, read the Sepulcher,
O Alberic the valorous, the pure,
if thou wouldst give thanks unto the hapless
and faultless mistress of this castle, call
for they undoubted courage; thou must fall
on thy knees and swear that any sapless
or fearsome monster, whatsoever it
may be, that issues from my marble pit,
thou wilt kiss on its mouth with passion
three times, that Oriana may go free.

And Alberic drew Brillamorte, and he
on its hilt--for such was then the fashion,
since the hilt was like a cross--swore boldly.
Sounds of thunder shook the deep, and coldly
the clouds blocked out the sun. The castle walls
were shaking. Alberic could feel her calls
to his heart, so he pressed on. "I swear it!"
he said again. The sepulcher's great lid
upheaved, and from its damp-dank cavern slid
such a great, green snake he could scare bear it.
It wore upon its head a golden crown.
The beast raised up its chin and stared him down,
sliding, coiling quickly toward the frightened
and screaming boy. He'd rather fight alone
all the pagan host of unenlightened
and heathen lands that Bohemund would own
than to touch the serpent that was hissing
there--and with his mouth! He'd pictured kissing
a griffin or a mermaid, not a snake.
He bit his rosy lips and tensed to take
flight, for it was creepy and unholy,
and reeked of Satan to his untaught nose,
though it was lovelier than any rose,
orange, or narcissus blossom: solely
its beauty scared the boy, for he was brave
enough to take whatever Nature gave.
This was never Nature; it was magic,
and Alberic recoiled as if it stung.
It would be so dirty and so tragic
to feel that thing upon his little tongue,
in his little mouth, between his fingers,
ponder in his flesh the way it lingers.

The serpent saw the way his throat had caught,
for Alberic could never hide his thought:
his emotions flickered in his pupils
for anyone to read. The snake stopped then
and in its golden eyes were hanging, when
Alberic looked closer, tears. His scruples
and pity for the crying, lovely beast
allowed him to relent, and as it ceased
its encroachment, sadly falling prostate,
the prince flew up and knelt with some alarm.
Gathering his courage, the apostate
put out a hand to touch it, fearing harm
had been done to this poor creature, making
it to cry, and it went swiftly snaking
along his arm. He screamed with all his strength
and moaned in terror as the scaly length
twisted 'round his limbs. However, calming,
he found the creature meant no harm to him;
besides, its tears were streaming off the rim
of its golden eyes like clear embalming
or sacred oils. The snake began to moan
with desperate keening noises of its own.

"Oriana," whispered Luna's hero.
He took the snake in both his arms and brought
it near to his face. He thought of Nero,
of Judas, and of Brutus, praying not
to betray his oath in childish loathing
for the snake's appearance--for, like clothing,
the snake could surely shed her scaly skin.
He gathered all the courage held within;
thrice he pressed his lips, so warm and gentle,
against the coldest, driest thing he'd felt,
attempting not to curse the Fates that dealt
such a destiny to him. His mental
abilities were leaving him; his eyes
fell closed like softened baby butterflies.

Sonnet Sequence: Something in Me Be Maligned

I have loved a thousand people: for everywhere I see the life running, sacred, through the feeble, transparent veins that beg the knife to untangle them, through glowing skin, I love; but once, unknowing, I fell in love soul-breakingly and deeply, slowly, achingly, with so powerful a passion that thinking of it even now can stop me cold. It was a vow that was more than life would ration to anyone if it were just. It was the kind of love that must make you give away whatever that person asks for: wealth, the ghost, life, the future; things you never would give; the things you value most: all your self-respect, your splendor, and your freedom.

My surrender was total. I gave all I had: my soul, my innocence, for mad ecstasy was all I noticed.

Because of that, my skin is scarred; the gates of Paradise are barred to me, even the remotest, most lonely corner of the sky, because I took his sin on my soul and gave my righteous, blameless uprightness to a guilty man for a pittance.

Every shameless existent person, if he can, lies to hide the darkness in him, even men who have a minim of honor; he obscured my view and lied and laughed until he knew I could never leave. I’ll never for this condemn him; I have done it, too. But he was ever one to create the drama: clever, unfathomable, and sedate. The darkness in his soul was great. All the hatred in his person was overpowering to me, awesome, and I watched it worsen, growing larger than an ocean, stronger in its coarse emotion than tidal waves. But I was bound to him and trapped in his profound sea before I sensed the water, all lost, and ready for my death in all that hatred. Every breath stolen from the sea could slaughter my will to swim.

Yet I am strong, far stronger than I knew, and long after I was swallowed under, I surfaced. I escaped, but I left there everything. His plunder included all myself.

The sky, empty, was above me, winking stars when finally the stinking abomination spat me out. I splashed there for a while, without aim, and then I crawled too slowly from Satan’s sea. It left me cold and naked, loathsome to behold, with the wings of the unholy and putrid vulture, fingers webbed, with common demon eyes that ebbed with the tide. Now I was hollow and soulless, mindless, bloodless, drained, too forlorn to lead or follow, and by the filthy water stained.

Stained and empty, I am standing here in snowfall, still demanding that something in me be maligned. Though years have come and gone, I find I have never felt the stinging of cold since I emerged, nor heat of summer, nor the pain of sweet happiness, nor sorrow bringing enlightenment. I am beloved by many, so they tell me, shoved into my associations. The men and women who are so cursed as to have had relations of any type with me will go from my hands, confused, forsaken. How can I look into warm, unshaken, forgiving eyes that worship me and tell those pupils honestly, “I have nothing; I’m diminished. I offer no support, no screams, no future heart, not even dreams. What is new to you, I’ve finished; I’ve seen the underbelly of the silver-cloudy life you love”?

Sonnet Sequence: Tending Wheat

Out of my imagination shouted a voice that crystallized within the chill.

Pointing to the structures he had routed,
the creature laughed.

He spoke his piece with skill,
loving me with every word he uttered,
trusting,
needing me.

He,
purring,
muttered and leaned against me,
telling me of wheat that grew untended in the southern heat,
lonely and unmastered.

Eyes expanding,
thinking of the hunger I had nursed,
I might allow my mouth to open,
versed in the words of ancients.

I am handing my soul to any lips that offer cheer:
a starving soul has nothing left to fear.

"Sin is hideous,"
my angel pouted,
"so lead me up onto the highest hill:
I won't give up on beauty 'til I've scouted the corners of the earth."

I said,
"Until you can see it with your eyelids shuttered,
listened to it glorified and guttered,
and known it in yourself,
your precious feet will walk along a firm,
unending street."

Earnest,
he said,
"When I see you stranding me on that hill,
I'll worship you at first,
then love you even more."

"You have rehearsed this,"
I said.

He nodded.

We were landing;
the flight was done.

He clung and whispered,
"Dear,
I love you."

He died;
my mind went clear.

~*~

Sin is ugly.

That is truth undoubted.

There is a kind of beauty in it still,
colors bursting forth as rules are flouted.

I hunger for some beauty.

I am ill,
starved for it,
surrounded by this cluttered dullness,
made like the Creator stuttered.

So bring me scraps of rotten fruit and meat and hunks of moldy bread,
and I will eat.

Bring me lukewarm water,
stale from standing,
and I will drink it down to quench my thirst.

Thus I,
depraved,
descend to do the worst,
screaming,
pleased by my demonic branding,
to be allowed to nuzzle at the ear of one who clings to me,
who lets me near.

Sonnet Sequence: Titania

As you say,
we are ill met by moonlight:
you come to take from me a memory that scrapes
and wakes my heart like emery.

I am off to gain the picayune light that will guard my treasure
while I slumber,
dreaming of the spicy winds that number in thousands
underneath the golden moon.

The farthest steppe of India is strewn with the sprinkles from the holy river,
where elephants wave ears,
and ragas twist like emerald snakes around the arm and wrist.

These are lies my conscience can deliver,
though this were never India.

Because she is,
it is.

It was because she was.

And because her love for me was fervent,
because my love must not be insincere,
I’ll keep what she took pains to engineer,
as a homemade present from a servant who was faithful,
as a faded letter from a love who left for someone better,
the scribbled picture of a grown-up child.

Among the sand dunes,
as the wind whipped wild ocean waves along her body’s swelling,
we loved too far for me to leave her now.

I loved her more intensely,
knowing how I would lose her.

Passion is compelling eternal me to further her campaigns,
to care for every piece of her remains.

Sonnet Sequence: Divine Confusion

Beauty still inflames the senses,
and softly begs to be drawn near,
nearer, through the psyche’s fences,
to be possessed, complete and clear,
taken whole inside the body
of the viewer, and its naughty,
uncanny smiling taunts the one
who hears it, tastes it, and is won.

This assaulting beauty’s victim
desires to overthrow its spell,
recover from the stunning shell
and its overwhelming dictum,
by rising, wrecking in delight
all the instigator’s might,
tearing it to tiny pieces
and throwing it upon the floor.

Her insane desire increases;
she wants to swallow, breathe, adore,
and put walls around her daughter—
dominate, envision, slaughter.

But never, never will she feel
fulfilled again: this cold ideal
fills her body with an aching,
intractable, eternal pain,
a need her tongue cannot explain
for creating, striving, breaking.

But if the object can’t obey,
she ruins the enthused display
to protect herself from treason
by that uncaring, lovely drive.

Children, it is for this reason
that all the architects alive
have built, that all the poets write,
that fruit is eaten, flames ignite,
and baby animals are born.

And this is why the veil was torn,
why the prince, when first he entered,
bent down to touch the sleeping miss
and wake her with his mouth: a kiss.

This is why the world is centered
upon its center, why both Good
and Bad exist, and why they should—
why we see so much destruction
within the earth and on its crust.

It is beauty’s soft seduction
and its resultant, bitter thrust
that bear responsibility
for elegance, nobility,
and self-improvement of all kinds.

Without this prickle in our minds,
this perverse, insane delusion,
nothing new would come to be
in the earth, the sky, the sea,
and the world’s divine confusion
would stagnate, empty out until
no voice disturbed the silent still.

Sonnet Sequence: Настасья Филипповна Барашкова

All around me stare in horror:
No woman is as bad as I,
As I laugh at my restorer,
Such as you are. I will not lie;
This is honest love I’m feeling,
And a pity so appealing,
So tender that I turn to you.
You, prince, are good; I am the shrew
And the filth. I lift my chin
For innocence destroyed before
I knew that love meant something more:
Life spent, taught carefully to sin.
I will not interrupt your psalm,
Press shattered crystal to your palm,
Or besmirch your honor in the bushes.
Validity is in the knife,
Nervous, as he pants and pushes.
And, oh! to sacrifice my life,
Bleed before my old offender,
Ask no pardon, not surrender:
Real proof that I’m a shameless whore
And proof that all he did before
Slaughtered me in dissipation.
Here I will do as I was taught:
Kill him who kills without a thought.
Overcoming his foundation,
Voluptuous, alone, awry,
And willingly I go to die.

Sonnet Sequence: Girls

It was cold; we lay together
beneath the covers, and we spoke,
for we were alone.

The weather
was howling loudly; no one woke.

I was hungry; I was crying.

You were lonely.

We were dying,
and both of us were simply lost
and powerless to stop the frost.

No more secrets lay between us.

The lines between our bodies blurred,
and we’d have wondered what occurred
if, outside ourselves, we’d seen us.

Next day, the snow came, more and more,
which you had never seen before.

Fiercely, innocently caring,
and drinking from your proffered hands,
long, as long as you are sharing,
I choose you.

These are large demands
from a girl as old as summer
on the youngest, newest-comer.

I wish there could be somebody
who could be everything to me,
but I don’t believe that person
lives.

Still, maybe you’re temptation;
maybe you’re my consolation.

Many wounds I’ve caused will worsen
and many souls I’ll wound anew,
and I regret the things I do.

Warm, I watch your graceful motions,
and listen to your soothing voice.

Friendship is the best of notions.

When, at the same time, we rejoice,
in unison we scream aloud,
delighted, shiver, face the crowd,
and clasp our hands as sisters would.

And maybe to be understood,
nameless Tao to steel Valhalla,
two people have to be the same:
a mirror with another name,
the inner half of a mandala.

I am the apple; autumn's come.

You are the blossom of the plum.

Sonnet Sequence: Annulment

This late, unfeigned betrayal could corrode
so deep a wound because I know this sport:
I knew the way your promise would contort,
and I allowed your love to take this road,
because I judged it fair for what I owed.
Thus, I will silence now my lips’ report.
I will not speak against you in the court
of judgment, though my wounds have overflowed.

That I have hated you, and cursed your sin,
and spoken crisp and loud your every wrong
to multitudes—this is to my chagrin.
For I am not a child; no, I am strong,
am strong enough to keep my anguish in,
to seal my lips as long as life is long.

And from this day, I never, uncontrolled,
will show your sins or broadcast all your faults,
although your lies, your sickening assaults
are in me and are shocking in their bold
and cruel heartlessness. But Fate is cold,
to you—a childish nothing in the vaults—
to me—the votary who still exalts.
You are too low to fault, too young to scold.

Today you killed me, watching me dissolve.
Tomorrow I am living, undeterred.
I’ll let it feed upon me and evolve,
and you will never hear me breathe a word
of pain or pained reproach. This I resolve.
I will it so—but laugh; I am absurd.

Sonnet Sequence: Pas de deux

If I had a ticket to the ocean,
I’d prove that stars within the sea exist.
I’d pluck them out and wrap them on your wrist,
gifting you celestial promotion.
To the mountain, in a single motion,
we might go then—for nothing must be missed.
I’d grip the sky and grasp it in my fist,
bring it to your lips, a mordant potion.

We’d eat my flesh and dance a pas de deux,
overwhelming silent blossoms, snaking
along the universal roads we knew.
To keep your tiny heart from aching,
I’d give you balm of Gilead’s debut
that I’d plucked from numinous remaking.

Then I’d prove to you my sad devotion
by leading you so deep into the mist
that dusk would settle on your spine and twist,
washing over you, a soothing lotion.
Then you’d understand my strange emotion—
the times I laugh at night—or tears persist—
because it can’t be told or reminisced,
just experienced in its commotion.

I want to show myself in full to you,
but it seems you never feel that quaking,
because you’ve never tasted stars or dew,
never worn the sky. And all my shaking
and all my knocking will not pull you through,
and the door won’t open for your faking.

Sonnet Sequence: The Question

There was a moment—single, lucid, clear—
in which I faced the dark Unknown nearby
(my feelings), far too desolate to cry
and far too terrified to quake with fear.
The door was an avoidable premiere.
I pushed it open, farewelling the sky.
The thickened closeness fell upon my eye,
the warmth, the putrid wetness on my ear.

As I descended through the filthy damp,
I heard the echoes in the moldy air,
and saw the twisted creatures who encamp,
perverse, entwined with one another there,
but handsome in the glitter from my lamp,
newborn each time I yielded to the snare.

Beyond that chamber lay a deeper force,
its purpose one that no one understood,
if evil or indifferent or good.
It was a power of uncertain source.
My bravery derived from the divorce
of life and joy, and death did as he would,
and then I did the only thing I could:
I opened up my eyes and faced Remorse.

Thus, knowing, I had nothing I could lose,
I turned my eyes into the monster's gaze.
I heard its laughter torment and accuse
and watched with interest its divine ballets;
I saw it, still a mystery, diffuse,
like mist, into a cloud of cheap clichés.

Then, in the center of an empty hall,
unwarmed and raw upon the granite floor,
I found my heart surrounded by a store
of void and impenetrable wall.
It flopped and panted, breathless to enthrall,
exhausted as a box of tusk and boar.
Not all the images I could restore
to my imagination could appall

me as did this pulsing, writhing thing,
pale gray from lack of blood, but at my back
the Question loomed and drove me with its sting
and threatened with its imminent attack
until I let it move through me and bring
me in itself and gather up my slack.

Then I, the Question, opened up that box,
the box-lid turning smoothly on its hinge,
and hefted out the tome without a cringe,
and set the weighty book upon the rocks.
The pages turned like yellow vellum blocks;
I felt the pressure change with every twinge,
alarming, like the touch of a syringe,
and welcome, like infantilizing shocks.

I found the page marked Truth, began to read,
and many fears were there, and vivid pain,
and secrets kept, and secrets lost to greed:
too much for any person to contain.
At last I saw the tangled mess recede
and found the thought I sought to ascertain.

The written word was Yes. It hovered, small,
concise, and legible, and at my stare,
it thrummed along my body like a flare
of perfect intonation through the hall.
Then I was full; I could not read the scrawl
that filled the pages (yet I was aware
of soft deceptions and a nom de guerre),
so I replaced the book within its stall.

Determined, grim, I went back to my sphere,
returned to shallow sunlight, shallow sky,
empowered as a steady pioneer,
who makes his first decision to defy
the mystery his nation calls Frontier,
intent upon his choice, and says goodbye.

I often wonder—knowing how we war,
how weak we are—if Fortune disagreed,
or whether God believes I will succeed.
I have no self-assurance anymore.
And yet I know in my own arms I bore
from frenzied insight a most perfect seed
of real honesty: a tiny creed
of softened driftwood that I rode ashore.

And thus, whatever force conspires to bruise
or sunder or obliterate my phrase
must face the resolution I refuse
to cede. As I confront the maze,
I build my confidence in what I choose
and set my mind to grimly smile at praise.