What is a piano
but a
played with somnolence
or pizacatto
in a house
of noise

everything is glass
&will shine and break
and everything,
that lives
is sequined
with pain

the tintinabulum
of our hopelessness then
blue in the water
blue in the
or an amber pear
that comes down
to shape
and in it mnemosyne
the lost

violin small
see and ache

the word
death is not
its answer



The white shapes
of summer
have aped Paul Klee:
little goat
who are you
little lamb
of you know who
we must whisper of faith
in the silence
of days!
The world is too small
we cannot save it
only look inside and
give hope away
from inside the
of an expressionis's




There are days when I can feel them, hammering in my blood: the positivist's with their levers, nailing together a little dream out of desire, a nihilism that founders at the edge of its own abyss, burning with need, with hopes for fame and pleasure. Those are hard days, when it appears there is no end, because I know for certain that in the material vision, there is absolutely no reason for anything to exist, no value to love, no intrinsic value to anything. It bothers me. Because I feel eternal somehow, I always have, especially when I'm in love. And the flowers burst into little bonnets of fever, expansive parachutes of rare blue silk, hanging in the air ,indebted to the air. I can't say why this is important to me, but somehow, I have to know, not whether, but how we exist. And I know no one else can supply that knowledge for me, that those who profess materialism have nothing to go on but their lack of experience of what death is. On the other hand the godly are often stunted in their reverence, little runts gorging themselves on abstinence and commandments

Yet there are saints who have lived between fire and absence. Who have lived the death that is life, the life that is death. I envy them, I do, though not for the pain with which they aquitted themselves, but because they could lie down at night, breathing into the shadows and know that what they live is what they mean.