In Epistles

Artaud dies

09.29.2005 In Epistles
1 of 12 in In Epistles

and his dying sinks like snow. Like spit and glue, who drinks it. Who would not like to know? That after dinner he poured out. Lighting each piece of snow on the windowsill, he placed an empty glass on the windowsill

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Half

09.29.2005 In Epistles
2 of 12 in In Epistles

of it sits. On a night like this. With no human shape. Snow goes down to death out there. I read Thel and it goes down. The train comes, the doors go down, a box of meat drops on the snow

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We sleep

09.29.2005 In Epistles
3 of 12 in In Epistles

like our bodies are together. Hands, white where they are. A thing of hands. To me he says Misses and I don’t know what to do. This dark underaddress. This.

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Deer here

09.29.2005 In Epistles
4 of 12 in In Epistles

hoof the roots at dusk. Soon. It dims the eyelets of trees, swayings, a scree of lights I watch work across the black hills, gleaning. Certain birds scissor the poplars and counting them now is kind of balancing, we certainly did, fitting the bright snow into a holster. I held you to mountains and to [...]

Tagged as: Animal Poems, Published

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At the funeral

09.25.2005 In Epistles
5 of 12 in In Epistles

the dogs wipe their gums on the trees, things exploded, and snow on the breezeway. At the funeral they say ‘just look at that sky’ and besides, birds, growing out of snow. They are hardly birds. The birds away

Tagged as: NP

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When the executioner’s tired

09.29.2005 In Epistles
6 of 12 in In Epistles

he sleeps on the rack. Wears chains on his head like a wig. Then I touch to his hair. [Move over.] Move through the time like a radio. I wheeze like a radio into his ear * published in Cab/Net 2

Tagged as: Published

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Not a real deer

07.29.2005 In Epistles
7 of 12 in In Epistles

but I swerve and Look someone says. A deer. And we hauled it down a ditch. It snowed. Our coats covered with hard brown hairs. Which lit the snow. Who did not want to carry any? plugged his hands in, fiddled alittle, look * published in Cab/Net 2

Tagged as: Animal Poems, Published

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Spinning

08.29.2005 In Epistles
8 of 12 in In Epistles

your skinny arm along my shoulders. Arm called lightning—there are locusts going off like fire, spitting, a sequence of infinite maneuvers, a place in a pound of water, houses, goings on, and knotted, all this, still on * Published in indefinite space 8

Tagged as: Published

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If he is

09.29.2005 In Epistles
9 of 12 in In Epistles

seeds or shapes cut from paper. If he chewed through snow like that. If newspaper bangs the door each morning and I turn around like he is doing now and rise * published in Cab/Net 2

Tagged as: Published

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I would weild

09.29.2005 In Epistles
10 of 12 in In Epistles

a large pair of scissors. Two eyes, two holes, big enough for his fingers. I would shear the field sighing over the surface of words. Flat yes flat. I would slip my hands underneath the new world and ask if snow is instead. If this is what we said. * earlier version published in Cab/Net [...]

Tagged as: Published

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