A LANDSCAPE AS VACANT AS THE MOON. Father, dreamt I of you as being a child once, the locust-heat Humming behind those drab glasses, looking at a poem of mine, Me the arbiter, in the little manor where we lived. An evil saturation Persists like a groggy humidity in recalling it, some smell of electricity In the wake of Heatstorm. As I remember the place, think of it deep into the night To the rhythm of the crickets, the cicadas too were audible there. The way the dream started, you were reading a thing I wrote, had pride in the wounded eye, staring upon a salient word or Knot of words, a few words or so, kneading you shirt’s cuff buttons The while. You retrieved a solipsism in that empty place, that manor Of the mind: resolute a thunder trailing quick over landscape Vacant as moon, and dreaming likewise of me, the son of you, And yet I see with tenderness your child-mind, have if you Like, a poem for you, a new place for the thunder, I think, A new place for the marker between us, like a sort of beacon, Flashing instabilities into the contrary night I think in again. Yourself the child, a man of mine, descriptor of the free. The child is an image, these words the descriptor, you the Free. Tell him, man, that you have played games with Locusts, have cornered them beneath your eyes, an orb Of hurt; have dreamed me too the maker of your child-mind, And wish me well to place you in the place where you are Born from me: a plumb-i-the-uprights kind of guy: a seam To connect the seams, diligence, reasoning-hygiene, might Mistake for needing cleaning. The big house, there, you Trail a divining rod made of birch through the thunder in a Garden, feet clopping happily on the cobblestone of a path Through, fit with dead leaves, leaves full of children to Master a riposte, a keen eye for a dead hand, quid pro quo, Yes or no, just to hear some silence from the lambs of Innocence, I also looking on as father on the words I wrote, Amidst a darkening storm in the corners of the sky, a flash Here, will-o-the-wisp of some design for locusts of the pain, While manors matter much to the spoken grunts of reason To roll up like dirt under the fingers into contiguity, you Playing in the mud after all, as it rains, gets muddier, you Child, setting once a left hand for the priest into the window Nearly severing all the nerves, nearly rendering it useless. That actually happened. My father, he was asked to open The window into the classroom for recess, and his left hand Went straight through the glass. I hope I am not so lamed. And hope your stain on the eye, a wounded eye behind Two frames of glass, responds to these words you read. Sees himself the child again in big manors of the mind, Dashing into stormclouds pridefully, having pride in what I create of you for you, and naught but I the bezel at the Tip, for you to chisel in your own remarks on youth with Your mind, my mind now wakened to the berms of sky That fill the manor with impertinent locusts through the Glass, as my left hand shoots into the glass of strange Weeping at the beauty of a playing child in storms, you, I, reading the words of child-mind, tenderly received.
Posted on: Fri, 23 Aug 2013 22:08:41 +0000
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