Tracks

     after Tranströmer

It’s been many months since I’ve been out
so late in the dewy midst of nothing at all,
Whitmanically examining shooting stars
that shower earth like miscreant sparks or—
what— graceful arcs suggesting sex?
Last night, pressing a clenched fist
hard against my closed eyes before sleep,
ocular fireworks. But then the sudden flood,
bright overhead fluorescence when
I realized my dream—hospital drunk—,
and time again for the phlebotomist to draw
more blood. 2 A.M. reads the clock.
No moonlight here, and no fucking stars.
 

Prayer

You touch flame to the flickering idea
of a candle in mind; in a daydream
I blow it out quickly for awful smoke—
tallow from whatever sheep, cow, or human
become suddenly reanimate, this instant
to relive its final struck agony, separation
from body. If there really is heaven, then
open the flue. Alchemy of suet to spirit—
let it be so, & I’ll light candles for all;
render up to You that which will burn; suffer
oily smoke, acrid fumes, the foul, spent fuel
of the saved—even the limits of light—subulate
flares wobbling, sputtering in their wake.
 

Clock Triolet

There’s a clock on a wall; it stops once a day.

Each night he twists a small key and rewinds it.
He remembers how it worked once, like yesterday.
There’s a clock on a wall; it stops once a day.
He’s never caught its hands freeze in their way.
Its keeping of time won’t let him forget.
There’s a clock on a wall; it stops once a day.
Each night he twists a small key and rewinds it.

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