the burr of my poem

children kiss us
we are going through dream

– Audre Lorde

I meeked the poem on to a sunspilt
star, and it

growled        the purr of it was tinsel
                       but I granted it
                       my weasel and

it purred again        the burr of my poem
is gone, or

has it?            we long for transitive verbs
                       when we could easily
                       be content with riddles

We are going through dream
and the children

know which dream to live &
which to slay        the

song too knows but words
get in the way –

٣ word wrestles

hoarfrost, iced munitions led
astray by

word, by Word – gift of song
rift of Song

by word        heard wrath, slept
as the chain

of verbs belonged: they woke
in disarray &

chain, the sweat of their mirrors
unbridled now –

morning as errant song, the gift as mend
as the architecture of mould
this would of

wear & mendicancy! how the strain of rinse
builds fences, how it stains
the oak of pale

an unpried zone, withheld with whose bark?
       solitary perhaps with
       saturn’s name, which

saturn, you ask? tuneshot with tuesday’s age
       unhooked perhaps with
       my master’s rage, which

master, you ask?

the dream that stuns

To enter the poem as flesh       as the dream that stuns you –
the owled necessity that sings of the other       does the poem
sit in relation to the other as it does to ancient song?
to enter the poem afresh, to return       the dream that stuns
owled necessity, the song of the other       we who would gather
brambles and speak as if we live forever       (which stories
stick to the ground of the poem?)       is it wonder sitting at my
throat recalling an earlier witness and becoming known?
to enter the poem again       has the eclipse been stone for long?