21.3.11

yarrow

 



 
 

drifting snow banks, if anything, where your hand disappears for a second, the shadow reconstitutes the remaining reeds. if anything, give me this ache of dispersal. the splitting of roads. the lure shaped scar & the sizable tree, from above, now just one long root. i can't say i don't keep suggesting names. for some reason i have some stake in the middle name yarrow (achillea millefolium), though i know it's unlikely, two syllables & dropping its' expansiveness of the taste of the sound at the end, almost unexpectedly. according to legend, yarrow was named after achilles, (the greek mythical figure) who used it to stop the bleeding wounds of his soldiers. i still believe that it's a good idea to have a middle name that means wound-healing.

she suddenly stops some of the aching, as in, by the shape of her eyes & everytime she asks me to account for silence, but logistically, i don't know if we can get it together. in some dreams i am a sheep herder. in others i know the medicinal properties of herbs & make tinctures to heal a sick child who lives in a house built into the side of a hill. in dreams, rarely do i run from someone. sometimes i follow or am followed. last night, i led her through the dunes; she was humming, which i'm not sure if she does, but i imagine that she does- to pass some time by with the sound curling up the cave of her throat & hovering there, floating out to pollinate the air with some sweetness. but the time was slow. i watched her hair lift in the wind to reveal her strong back- this must have been over 500 frames. just the wind & the humming continuing. when we reached the water, there were thousands of straw flowers (helichrysum bracteatum) moving with the low tide. the greeks used straw flower mixed with honey to soothe burns.

16.3.11

in the elder staircase







You did say, need me less and I'll want you more.
I'm still shellshocked at needing anyone,
used to being used to it on my own.
It won't be me out on the tiles till four-
thirty, while you're in bed, willing the door
open with your need. You wanted her then,
more. Because you need to, I woke alone
in what's not yet our room, strewn, though, with your
guitar, shoes, notebook, socks, trousers enjambed
with mine. Half the world was sleeping it off
in every other bed under my roof.
I wish I had a roof over my bed
to pull down on my head when I feel damned

by wanting you so much it looks like need.                         - Marylyn Hacker


for a lack of a better term a windswept spirit                         -Anne Carson, from Nox





            or tell me how



in the elder stairwell, suddenly the slight redness of your skin at the collar, 
below the coracle of the throat. if we were trapped here.

in the railcar office i don't take off my shirt. the envelope is the envelope, where it collapses, only to 
meet again its' plane. if we were as bare.

what is rendered useless. how many words a day are capitulated if only by the air. or the sweet 
grass. or the lasso bent smoke of grief.

when i first noticed, you looked up. leaned back then to draw back to the non-being 
of this: of her ordinary boxes, of the vase lakes tacked to a basement wall. to will or chance.

not noticing you is as if the tree were covering the entirety of the lake-bound 
island. even when you look without looking i lose a part of the way.