what an unlucky key
I carry
no black cats
only a white-eye doe
through snow
and always the moon
Electrifying the branches
the door of the coast
must be closing
the fish must be angry
that they dance so still
maybe I’ll keep the key
like a lock of hair
a cloud, and the magic of rain
tomorrow I will come to the door
look at the field
in early dawn
burn deliver
and fold the silver sky
back
Down and into the blood
drowning
into our
red-faced babies
eyes
We give them
that much light
and lie about
the darkness
Taking all the phones
In his hands, he told
Them he wouldn’t be
available for questioning.
He knew he could
Shut the windows,
And no one would come to his door.
He even
Bought a gun,
Insisting that the only
Noises he could hear
Were the naked feet
Of Indians, coal black and hunched,
Circling the edge
Of his burning field.
At night they dream of you,
hunched over their children,
whispering illuminations into their ears.
Like night-watchmen, they turn
out all the lights
and wait for shadows.
They moan with soft grunts,
thinking they hear you
moving between the dark walls
and the cramped bodies
of their children.
Taking all the phones
In his hands, he told
Them he wouldn’t be
Available foe questioning.
He knew he could
Shut the windows
And no one would come to his door.
He even
Bought a gun,
Insisting that the only
Noises he could hear
Were the naked feet
Of Indians, coal black and hunched,
Circling the edge
Of his burning field.
There was a death. They came
wandering from the lower regions,
until they reached the top. Settled
and reborn, they melted the ice, warmed
the air, and outlived the day.
Snow fell. They built each cradle,
nursed the dirt with water, until
a speck formed wiggling itself
from the dirt; and the camp went
and turned and the snow fell.
Nights and snow and cold-
but they drank, their beards
keeping them warm. Fucked.
Fucked the cow, the deer, the bear.
The wind has joined the snow.
The air turned cold and black,
while the day, pulsing like a
choked vein, watches the tops of chimneys.
In Los Angeles
The triple threat of California
Threw the first ball
And the season began.
II
The priest nodded
And took his seat
Inside the guards
Almost metal-like, smiled
Then took their seats.
Everybody has got their seats!
III
At twelve minutes after ten,
One witness pronounced
him dead
and it was over.
“It should be on television,
every execution should be
open to public eyes,â€
he said,
and that was all.
IV
He thought he was half way
between San Francisco
and Sacramento
somewhere he thought
His hands ached
from the cold
At the opening
of the road
the sky was opening and closing
like a lung
His nerves stiffened
like dried roots
He fell at the base
where the leaves were falling
like birds
one
by
one
And he crawling
belly down
the dried leaves
sucking
and sobbing
at his mouth
thick with scent
their veins stretching
almost child-like
crying
I am Jesus Christ
Outside Colorado, he stops
his fists locked
around the steering wheel.
I watch the small nerve
above his cheek twitch
like a neon sign:
“All the way from St. Louis…â€
Mountains slip from the sky
with last night’s snow
circled round the tops
of their peaks.
Lanzo tells me that he can hear
the Pacific,
that it echoes in his ear
like a sea shell.
Around us the great desert
of Utah;
we are far from the sea.
Lanzo moves like an ancient turtle,
picking his way
through an ocean of sand.
Telephone wires stiffen
their messages in a wind
blinded by altitude and snow.
Off the road I watch
the pulse of sleep
hang from his lip like an ode.
I pull away his eyes,
his two-hundred and thirty pounds,
skin that smells of bear,
and find the heart of a child
whispering into the wings of birds.
He’s asleep now,
and the Rockies are glad.
We watched the sky
light up,
the bones of dogs
loosen from
their skin
and disappear.
We heard fingers
scratch insistently
against the door,
wanting to get in,
to press their lips
to ours
and whisper their secrets.
We waited in the bar,
lying about our names,
age, and residence.
The girl told me she
had an aunt in Inglewood.
She remembered only the lights
The Redwoods, and Los Angeles.
I told her
that there was a lot of service stations
in California,
I even told her
my muscles were Californian.
She blushed and said
there wasn’t enough time
to hear the whole story.
We slept in the grass
too tired to move
or clean the ground
of branches
Dirt still wet
with the dark
My mouth filled
with the grass of your body
Underneath roots push
like streams
to the sea
I want to stick
my whole head
in
and follow
Old women pull
at their skins
call bees
to feed the blossom
tomorrow is a stone
a sun that comes late
and the stiff eye of a child
who kicks walls
tissues of blood,
and emerges
sucking black smoke
It’s Christmas. The sky
thick with snow, and house
along the streets begin to darken
quickly against the landscape.
The glassed windows are packed
with snow, and only a few shadows
escape from the inside. There are
these moments of silence
which lock people to one
another; and I , alone
with a friend, speak of things
my father said yesterday.