the rankle of leaves

Have the beasts answered your
call yet    have the morsels of
hate braided a future of

cannot-dos  haven’t-the-times
lots-a-stuff-been-hanging-on
-them-toes?    the rankle of

leaves ranges from coast to
skin and leaves your breath a
quantum step away from the

reach of pen    the quills
remember the time when each
stone was one melt away from

I.

vi historicii

The procurement of distance    its wish
fulness beyond

a certain point    the very matter of its
being far    it

retains the fulcrum over an axial yearn
it is prefigured

before time became a known quantity    the
mouth of becoming

yielding again the very mass that thaws
its mummification

a historical moment    the gravity
of its opening

the tread of being when/where    the
stamp of its

becoming    the historical sense
the linkage of

thus with this    the picture of how
we came & will be

coming to terms with this wind
fall    this

treesome leaftip youthnib
coming to terms with this I

of point
& grief –

the fallout of a poem
its residual

warmth    its weight edging along the tip of
water       the edging of

a poem    its reliance on the luxury of
                 ice    the sip of

a poem    its machine of semblance &
                 catchalls    viewing wordspace

to remain in poemspace all
the time

to retain your stake in the human
ratio of reticence to

verse    the degree with which the pen
              stammers
              versus the hammer of pain & its
              resistance

The fattened acid of our age    crust of
the bellows of

hell    the plain turn of happening    this
loss of love

becoming receptive to the dry twigs of
making do with/out

Snatches of open space

i.
you cannot expect contingency from a poem    only the want of heaven’s claw     its tear and purr
you cannot pretend not to know the poem’s speak    its calm and pose    its worried roar & pique

ii.
in anticipation of my next void    silence begets yet another choice
this open space    this metered vial    this gift of love as pain

iii.
we have not withered distance
as well as we have nicked its math

and culled its calculus    we have
not suffered any more than

what the curve and dimension of
reckoning have stood for

in their timeless worship of near
ness    their loss of prayer