restoring death to its abode

the throes of pale descend;
    a bone is wrought   this the wire where blood is vine   as fern-door tips
    open, the solitary dove coos   whose wish remains,

which house of worm witholds?
    as the cove of ground breaks open love buds   whose wish remains, which
    whorl of tincture roams? restoring death to its

abode   i as the stubbornness of
manhell climb out of nothing into
nothing   serpent! sway us
into call, strum the wet wood into
storm   smoke   mother!

confined to open spaces

the political economy of inaction
is the poem
  it rests
  confined to open spaces
  dense in not being
is the poem
  inaction?
  confined to open spaces
  sense it not being
the poetical economy of inaction
—

by confining yourself to the pure and simple, you will hinder the whole world from struggling with you for show.

Chuang Tzu

the small kali

the small kali whispers a little death
  the orange skin in the morning sows heat the memory of heat & dissolves

this month is not possible as it tires of the motherly yeast, fatherly axe, crumbs of fallen laugh   this month is the apogee of a resisting moondance   it is weary of the sunstory as fillin for snakehead & wolfshine

the small kali can hear the mancloud tremble
  the bronze tint in the morning sows hunger the reason for hunger & dissolves