The Aurochs

 

I thought it would be
a majestic way of dying:

great horns scything
arcs in the air,

bloody, with bellows
like a hunter’s call,

until the cross of bone
was removed from its heart.

Instead, a quiet passing,
bedded down deep

in a Polish forest, alone,
as summer to autumn,

as a childhood myth.

Virginia

Windflower, lilac, hyssop –
trisagion of color
planted for the sake
of memory.

Breezes wring anise out
of the blackadder,
send it aloft, a primitive call
to mourners on wings

that pass over our encomium
once, twice, circling
before they land and feed.
They will carry resurrection

with them, as they
drift on the wind,
and your name will live on.

Interior

Humbaba’s sixth aura
was given to the forests;
I read this on the train

and note contrails in the sky
marking off
our path to the city,

with just enough time to scan
a prospectus
on the Lex Ave property.

A weight
presses down
like buildings on Manahata bedrock:

could you dig a hole
deep enough
to find the ghosts of trees?

Some trees are here,
in odd places –
London Plane and Callery Pear

on Stanton and Eldridge.
Small community gardens.
Of course,

Central Park: an island
set in the onrushing
sea of progress.

Humus – trace
of forgotten woods –
far below lifts our feet

as we buy and sell
and breathe air
old as legends.

R.I.P., Jonathan Lambert of Tristan da Cunha

in one month
I will die

in a boat
though I sailed

eight thousand miles
to reach this place

(which is nowhere)
from bustling docks

smelling of salt
cod and sulfur

unfamiliar with irony
nonetheless I will

watch lonely clouds
scud overhead

as every mile
winds backward

and darkens

Studio, 4:37 PM

This mixing the paint—like so.
See? It takes great care.
You stare at this palette for
so long, all the colors look like one,
but no color you’ve seen before.
For this still life, you have a pear,
a cracked dish, an old knife;
you need a delicate glacé of green,
with just enough yellow among
and in-between to make the
fruit soft to the eye’s touch.
A blush of red with the grey
Suggests a warm shadow on
the dish’s scarred face, to make
the anger of the crack
easier to take. And the knife?
Feather black with the steel
and streaks of white; balance
the light and shade, so you
cannot tell whether a tool
of harm or good. You must
say more than dish, knife, pear—
you make a metaphor; ask
why and what for?

When you are done, clean
the brushes well, to be ready
for next time. I’m going down
to lock the door. What more,
how much better
could I tell you?

Jamesport

Twist the lens into place.
Sound: the click of crickets

undisturbed in tall grass.
I photograph old churches,

seek out dusty altars,
amen corners, relics.

Birds nest in cruciform shadows;
they sing to me, prowler,

crouching, bent double,
looking for pools of light.

Copp's Hill

I was tired then,
and did not particularly welcome
the thought of mallet and slab,
the bite of sharp tool into flat,
matte-surfaced stone.

It takes great strength
to carve Agd. 6 Years
onto slate, deep enough
to last through years
of wind and rain,

yet not too deep, so that
the stone will not crack,
so that a child will not lack
a name, a death’s-head,
wings fitted for heaven.