1.

Silence in the four corners.

You hide beneath the blankets,

peering out.

It’s silent inside — no wings flap.

You put your heavy angel-net down,

and listen at the window.

Well… there’s uproar outdoors!

The noon sun drums on the lumbering petals,

A buckeye slurps the juice.

It’s silent upstairs.

Of yore stepped your subjects on stairs

up and down: Seraphim Cataracts,

but there’s no stepping now.

What’s left behind?

crowds of hares race down the corridor.

2.

Spring is here

the saws are grinning

young green leaves zigzag away

ivy tendrils intertwine

back in gear

the saws are laughing

and they do sing

such wondrous things,

like Hebrew harps they sing:

voices in the empty streets,

eyes are being watched,

tears of rage in tombstone eyes,

shards of rage in junkies’ hides,

sting of sweat in golden rings,

moths of fear in vested suits,

incendiary wheels on legal tender,

pounds of splinters in our

great garden of civility.

3.

Soon the summer will sizzle,

rioting on after midnight.

“Solid citizen may not slumber!

“No one may have dreams tonight!

“Babylon is up for grabs!”

Crickets crowd the noonday sun,

feet talk back to the street.

The sun is a slob,

no one will comb him.

Your finger-smeared glass slams

bang on the table,

a dwarf star guffaws.

4.

My friends, we live in strange times.

In the old days the body protected itself

against the alien cells —

now the cells fall back on themselves

and it’s the body that is alien.

The body is dry,

its brain makes sparks

that brighten the streets

with factitious light,

hurrying us home

to dream up the night,

water for thirsty people,

while poets turn, and turn,

and turn the phrase,

their words are caves,

traces of traces of rays.

5.

The gardener stood on the portico.

The rose had congealed with azaleas,

Peace had congealed on his sweaty face.

So that the rose should not melt away,

So that the leaves should not melt in fire,

The gardener planted our garden on

precipices and arroyo walls.

Azaleas burn through the full green leaves,

a fire in place, cool to the touch,

ideal solution in the shade of trees.

So that the branch of Nothingness might be pruned away

The suffering past passes on with the time

but is not exhausted in time.

6.  Archimedes’ Point

Of two fevers

one that burns sudden and candent and fast

and one that burns cool and unassuageable

the cool one burns in me

a long fuse from my mind to my fingertips

my vision its long detonation.

I have heard of love for the cold sweat

I have heard that steel lauds ice

and I have heard of unaccountable races

overrunning the earth with gifts of fire

but I only see what my body sees

cool Archimedes and slow to melt

who freezes the eyes looking into me

capturing stars for a frozen sea.