An avalanche of beautiful people in town.
The town is filling with new love as
I slowly lose mine.
In other times
People had their rituals of the dead
Now we have breakfast.
Breakfast becomes a ritual.
Grey mist river and fall grass
hours of poetry on interminable mornings
I am starting to like the American poets’ way of saying things
Louise Gluck just won the Nobel prize.
All her books are on back order.
She is very good- or is it just me
That is now receptive to poetry.
Still ten minutes
The house breeds its silence
Like moss on abandoned wood
A distant sound of shower water
Here but not here. Far. Because time and space can both stretch
To make ground for you and I
And the I in you
And the you in I.
Do I translate the Bauls for you?
O’ mirror! Town of mirrors!
Saint of the Holy Cross!
Will the world ever become a Baul’s world?
Will you be able hear to hear the word?
The quality of the pure.
Broken by doors- opening and closing.
Faucet sounds. Filling of kettles.
The making of food. The breaking of fasts.
When shall I break my fast?
Lines and girdles
Lines more girdles.
Sitting one after the other.
-then all that leading to your door.
The house is made of earth
The house is made of salt.
It is uncommon ground like a cemetery.
No man can own this ground.
It is two feet above ground.
The house holds up with props and fences
Phantoms from another world.
Very carefully, the house lays down its tales
In sticks and stones.
A shattered glass vase in mid-air-
Though we all see the shattered, cracked pieces.
Very slowly dusk gathers, winter creeps in.
It is an empty house.
The people are in the veins
And then ghosts come out-
There is clattering and banging of pots and pans.
An exhaust whirring.
An egg-white seething slow.
Sunlight through the kitchen window
And making humans, glow.