09-06-2016, 09:07 AM
A Study in Four Parts
[I]
In the sunlight
considering the black and red pages
of the Gospel
a mosquito
landed
and tried to suck from
John 4:14.
[II]
Tired
Amarillo, Texas
sunlit
quiet station
the wind blows.
[III]
Observe the indentation:
eight lines converge.
It was here that a child
pressed a plastic toy into the sand.
[IV]
Unacquainted as I am with the names and varieties of birds common to our region, I nonetheless can confidently identify the Mourning Dove, whose acquaintance I happily make tonight, and who is apparently healthy as she steadies herself facing west and as a male descends behind her.
[I]
The mosquito . . .
Perhaps he would
begin to glow
Perhaps he would
be struck down
Perhaps he would
become a bird
Perhaps he would
report the will of God
Perhaps he would
whine sweetly in my ear
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps . . .
[II]
Past Amarillo,
the desert surrenders to
the highway.
I button my shirt and tuck it in.
The night will be cold.
And maybe I will impress a local girl with
my clean-cut look.
[III]
See:
eight lines
expanding ever onward
creating petals
large enough that they
hold the center of the earth
between them,
and here
near the stamen
a shell—
[IV]
I am impressed with the speed with which he begins to court, walking in cock-sure circles even before fully touching down. I am given permission by this bird to futurewise up the ante on my own come-ons and barroom romances. I am fascinated! What else might I learn from this bird? She avoids him, looking distractedly westward. And yet he is a persistent suitor, undeterred by this inattention. More sure he becomes, more resolute. And again l am impressed. What confidence! Here: this is the natural way. Be a gentleman. sure, but backing off in the face of a little standoffishness is for suckers.
[I]
The mosquito
spiraled
clockwise
into the air in
front of my eyes
and swirled.
[II]
Empty highway
from Amarillo to Arizona.
The sun set.
Night.
I stopped
once in the desert night.
The moon had set.
I heard no coyote,
saw no poison lizards,
saw no rundown motels,
no flickering neon . . .
But some many miles away,
I saw headlights
approaching
slowly.
[III]
See the buried shell
resting in the bell
of a flower
whose petals
on closing
would cradle the bl
azing
core of the earth,
and the shell
rests.
[IV]
I feel distant, and have stopped learning from the male who is dancing on my roof. He has taken a hop into the air, fluttered his wings, and come down upon her tail feathers. This he does several times, like a novice surfer trying to catch a wave. She moves away each time, refusing to have sex with this stranger. I do not approve of his aggressiveness. But they are birds, after all, with a different grand design. And, suddenly, she dies. She falls ten feet to the ground and lays still. He, and awkwardly I think, flies ten feet away, paces, flies to a power line, waits, flies to a power pole, looks around, to be sure that he is alone, and then, quickly it seems, rushes away north.
[I]
I darted my hand
and caught
the empty space
around the mosquito.
I brought him near to my eyes
and opened my hand,
and then
he flew quickly away,
not glowing,
not speaking,
and he did not become a bird.
[II]
The headlights . . .
It was silly to think
that highwaymen
might lay me low
in the Arizona badlands
that ghosts
stuck
in this reality
might haunt this stretch of nowhere.
Believing this
(and after praying),
I sat on the hood of my car
and watched the headlights come.
[III]
The shell rests
like an insect
who would drink strange nectar
for some brief seconds
and fly through long space
past the flaming core of the world
looking for a crack i
n the infini
te
ly
Stret
chi
ng peta
ls of the
flower.
[IV]
Startled that she had died suddenly I could not help but asking myself if this could be a vision, or some fantastic omen from, yes, let it be admitted, a higher power. From God. Acting too quickly to guard myself with cynicism, I ran to the opposite edge of the roof overhanging the front yard, jumped, and WheretheBirdHad Fallen and was stopped in my tracks. A bird lay here as well. Here on the side of the house. Was this another bird, or had the first come brokenly from the backyard to the side?
[I]
The mosquito
did not become
a glory of flames.
And I discovered
the answers
to my questions
about religion
and thought briefly
to close the Good Book but did not.
[II]
The headlights came closer,
slowly
suddenly
I would be afraid.
I had my keys in my hand.
The headl
ights came faster, then,
and I became alarmed
and got into my car,
locked the doors,
and waited,
ducked in my seat
until the headlights passed.
I finished the trip with much
to think about
because I had spent a lifetime in those lights.
[III]
And the shell is a shell,
and the insect does not exist, and
the flower of my mind
is merely the imagined extension
of eight intersecting lines
impressed upon the sand of a beach
by the toy of a child.
[IV]
I continued to run after examining the bird I had found on my way from the front yard to the back. Whether it was the same bird or not I desperately needed to know. Finding the original bird growing cold in the spot where she fell I thought assuming that this is an omen, what is the almighty trying to tell me? Well, I'm still frozen to that spot in my mind. Joseph is dead. Joseph is dead, and I dream at night of thousands of birds falling around me, and wake up with a headache. All of my interpretive experiments have failed, and here, reviewing my recollections, I find the story equally inscrutable and irresistible, as if I am clinging to a locked door on the wall of a high tower. If God can speak, prefer not to hear than not to understand. For in a moment, all hands are joined, and I will die.
[I]
In the sunlight
considering the black and red pages
of the Gospel
a mosquito
landed
and tried to suck from
John 4:14.
[II]
Tired
Amarillo, Texas
sunlit
quiet station
the wind blows.
[III]
Observe the indentation:
eight lines converge.
It was here that a child
pressed a plastic toy into the sand.
[IV]
Unacquainted as I am with the names and varieties of birds common to our region, I nonetheless can confidently identify the Mourning Dove, whose acquaintance I happily make tonight, and who is apparently healthy as she steadies herself facing west and as a male descends behind her.
[I]
The mosquito . . .
Perhaps he would
begin to glow
Perhaps he would
be struck down
Perhaps he would
become a bird
Perhaps he would
report the will of God
Perhaps he would
whine sweetly in my ear
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps . . .
[II]
Past Amarillo,
the desert surrenders to
the highway.
I button my shirt and tuck it in.
The night will be cold.
And maybe I will impress a local girl with
my clean-cut look.
[III]
See:
eight lines
expanding ever onward
creating petals
large enough that they
hold the center of the earth
between them,
and here
near the stamen
a shell—
[IV]
I am impressed with the speed with which he begins to court, walking in cock-sure circles even before fully touching down. I am given permission by this bird to futurewise up the ante on my own come-ons and barroom romances. I am fascinated! What else might I learn from this bird? She avoids him, looking distractedly westward. And yet he is a persistent suitor, undeterred by this inattention. More sure he becomes, more resolute. And again l am impressed. What confidence! Here: this is the natural way. Be a gentleman. sure, but backing off in the face of a little standoffishness is for suckers.
[I]
The mosquito
spiraled
clockwise
into the air in
front of my eyes
and swirled.
[II]
Empty highway
from Amarillo to Arizona.
The sun set.
Night.
I stopped
once in the desert night.
The moon had set.
I heard no coyote,
saw no poison lizards,
saw no rundown motels,
no flickering neon . . .
But some many miles away,
I saw headlights
approaching
slowly.
[III]
See the buried shell
resting in the bell
of a flower
whose petals
on closing
would cradle the bl
azing
core of the earth,
and the shell
rests.
[IV]
I feel distant, and have stopped learning from the male who is dancing on my roof. He has taken a hop into the air, fluttered his wings, and come down upon her tail feathers. This he does several times, like a novice surfer trying to catch a wave. She moves away each time, refusing to have sex with this stranger. I do not approve of his aggressiveness. But they are birds, after all, with a different grand design. And, suddenly, she dies. She falls ten feet to the ground and lays still. He, and awkwardly I think, flies ten feet away, paces, flies to a power line, waits, flies to a power pole, looks around, to be sure that he is alone, and then, quickly it seems, rushes away north.
[I]
I darted my hand
and caught
the empty space
around the mosquito.
I brought him near to my eyes
and opened my hand,
and then
he flew quickly away,
not glowing,
not speaking,
and he did not become a bird.
[II]
The headlights . . .
It was silly to think
that highwaymen
might lay me low
in the Arizona badlands
that ghosts
stuck
in this reality
might haunt this stretch of nowhere.
Believing this
(and after praying),
I sat on the hood of my car
and watched the headlights come.
[III]
The shell rests
like an insect
who would drink strange nectar
for some brief seconds
and fly through long space
past the flaming core of the world
looking for a crack i
n the infini
te
ly
Stret
chi
ng peta
ls of the
flower.
[IV]
Startled that she had died suddenly I could not help but asking myself if this could be a vision, or some fantastic omen from, yes, let it be admitted, a higher power. From God. Acting too quickly to guard myself with cynicism, I ran to the opposite edge of the roof overhanging the front yard, jumped, and WheretheBirdHad Fallen and was stopped in my tracks. A bird lay here as well. Here on the side of the house. Was this another bird, or had the first come brokenly from the backyard to the side?
[I]
The mosquito
did not become
a glory of flames.
And I discovered
the answers
to my questions
about religion
and thought briefly
to close the Good Book but did not.
[II]
The headlights came closer,
slowly
suddenly
I would be afraid.
I had my keys in my hand.
The headl
ights came faster, then,
and I became alarmed
and got into my car,
locked the doors,
and waited,
ducked in my seat
until the headlights passed.
I finished the trip with much
to think about
because I had spent a lifetime in those lights.
[III]
And the shell is a shell,
and the insect does not exist, and
the flower of my mind
is merely the imagined extension
of eight intersecting lines
impressed upon the sand of a beach
by the toy of a child.
[IV]
I continued to run after examining the bird I had found on my way from the front yard to the back. Whether it was the same bird or not I desperately needed to know. Finding the original bird growing cold in the spot where she fell I thought assuming that this is an omen, what is the almighty trying to tell me? Well, I'm still frozen to that spot in my mind. Joseph is dead. Joseph is dead, and I dream at night of thousands of birds falling around me, and wake up with a headache. All of my interpretive experiments have failed, and here, reviewing my recollections, I find the story equally inscrutable and irresistible, as if I am clinging to a locked door on the wall of a high tower. If God can speak, prefer not to hear than not to understand. For in a moment, all hands are joined, and I will die.
A yak is normal.
