Poetry ·
THE SHAPE OF THE FIRE
1
What's this? A dish for fat lips.
Who says? A nameless stranger.
Is he a bird or a tree? Not everyone can tell.
Water recedes to the crying of spiders.
An
old scow bumps over black rocks.
A cracR.ed pod calls.
Mother me out of here. What more will the bones allow?
Will the sea give the wind suck? A toad folds into a stone.
These flowers are all fangs. Comfort me, fury.
Wake me, witch, we'll do the dance of rotten sticks.
Shale loosens. Marl reaches into the field. Small birds pass over water.
Spirit, come near. This
is
only the edge of whiteness.
I can't laugh at a procession of dogs.
In the hour of ripeness the tree is barren.
The she-bear mopes under the hill.
Mother, mother, stir from your cave of sorrow.
A low mouth laps water. Weeds, weeds, how I love you.
The arbor is cooler. Farewell, farewell, fond worm.
The warm comes without sound.
Where's the eye?
The eye's in the sty.
The ear's not here
Beneath the hair,
2
When I took off my clothes
To find a nose,
There was only one shoe
For the waltz of To,
The pinch of Where.
