Eclipsed

erasure of a page from Samuel Pepys' diary

The Lord, a lamb;
the sun, nothing—
a sheep’s head
with a war bark,
a public hatch,
sad money,
or a hand with
a high fever.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 3 March 1659/60.

Mortuary

Would you choose one made of pine
and lined with resin? Would it be

acacia or whistling thorn, the honey oak,
the silver birch? Wind streamed through

these branches once, and swifts.
This one, or that, could be the craft

you’ll board, aimed past the chasm;
the last bed and dream you’ll row in.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Wind.

Kismet

Here is the bed they said
to lie in— until,
eventually, you realize
there is a window
or a door, corridors
leading somewhere
that isn’t here. Water
or wine? Stay
or leave? Wing or sea
might show the way.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Mindless.

Wind

erasure of a page from Samuel Pepys' diary

Lo, the trumpeters give a sound
of the rump this morning,

a wind to the leg where a carp
is put into good posture.

My art is talk—
and after talk, the bed.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 2 March 1659/60.

Mindless

erasure of a page from Samuel Pepys' diary

Thinking out of the box,
my mind left.
Little to do but school a school in being,
a man buried in being.
Brain or pot? Water or wine?
Other things make a kind bed.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 1 March 1659/60.