Iron Law, 1983

Three men drift into linen, the ancient

textile of flax.

Flimsy, but wild like a wildflower.

Light paints on his chest a fish relief.

To stand still on a stone made of flesh.

A man, most likely a man, is a fugitive of

pain & pushes himself into the threshold

of Stygian beauty: spots of dusk, pools of

dire sadness.

This iron world is ruthless.

The men drift, not existing in words.

Existing in pain/t.

Flower, leaf, or eye: the earth sees well

without light.

The tallest man in the art has the

authority. His art is incandescent.

Two men in the painting are improperly

framing the landscaping of the

evanescent man in disgrace.

No one in the modern world can afford

either despair or transient beauty any

more. Thus, this. This landscape filled

with primordial will.

Dying Couple, 1993

It’s difficult to see, but we are lying on

firm mats made out of umber resin. Our

skulls have teeth and they have begun to

eat.

My wife. Yes, my wife. She has these

urges for rhubarb stalks. I have gripped

my fingers inside myself, longing to grow

some out of my sternum for her. For

her. For her.

When my lungs blush, I am a little girl.

Lying here I thought our bones, like

paper towels, were trying to whisper into

our bloodstream.

We are mildew suspended in an invisible

grocery sack.

The sun dips back.

We are in the dark with our canes. Our

belly buttons look like small craters of

light, wishing it would rain so that they

convert into miniature lakes.

We are not lonely and we are not bored

with gazing up. My husband looks

saintly, doesn’t he? So prepared for war.

Heroic, no?

We are at death’s door. Our flesh will

moan, will murmur, will speak softly,

our darkness will no longer belong to us.

We must let go, but we can’t let go.