The spruce grove
at the top of the hollow
harbors a north-woods chill.
Seated on a runner sled
I hurtle down into
the sunlit field,
my shadow like a witching rod
stretched out before me,
alive to every bump and dip.
from Ghost Blueprints
“Lord, give a little.” ~ D. Bonta
2
The fisherman pointed
toward the channel
where the water surged
blind as they slept
beneath roofs
flimsy with fronds—
And then he walked
the length of shore
pointing out cornerstones
of torn foundations,
beds, mirrors,
vanities, suitcases
swiveled toward
the ocean’s inky mouth.
In response to Via Negativa: Winter prayer.
Joinery
At the office all the morning. Dined at home, and then to the Exchange, and took Mr. Warren with me to Mr. Kennard, the master joiner, at Whitehall, who was at a tavern, and there he and I to him, and agreed about getting some of my Lord’s deals on board to-morrow.
Then with young Mr. Reeve home to his house, who did there show me many pretty pleasures in perspectives, that I have not seen before, and I did buy a little glass of him cost me 5s. And so to Mr. Crew’s, and with Mr. Moore to see how my father and mother did, and so with him to Mr. Adam Chard’s (the first time I ever was at his house since he was married) to drink, then we parted, and I home to my study, and set some papers and money in order, and so to bed.
The master joiner agreed about
the many pretty pleasures
in a glass house.
Since he was married to drink,
we parted, I home
to my paper bed.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 11 February 1660/61.
from Ghost Blueprints
1
Elusive hornbill,
ground warbler,
songbird with
weak wings—
The ornithologist checks
his notes but won’t
find your names
listed there. Instead,
in a clearing he begins
to calculate
how much work it will take
to carve a city
out of the hills,
with compass and lawnmower.
In response to Via Negativa: Pastoral.
Pastoral
The squirrel’s tracks end
in a smudge of blood on the snow,
one tuft of fur
and the long furrow
its dangling tail drew
beside the fox’s footprints.
Alone in the field,
a bulldozer lowers its blade
to a white and heavy harvest.
Ghost Monorail
(poems of the abandoned or disrupted)
1
From my office
window, angle
of tree limbs in winter
offset by these un-
finished platforms.
2
Like that station
in Pound’s metro:
almost I see
the running stroke:
brush, clumps of color
that could be faces.
3
On summer evenings
if you closed your eyes,
sometimes it’s possible
to imagine standing
by the pillars of much
older ruins.
4
A grid defines
periphery, limits
of what we wanted
to deliver or
enclose.
I kind of like
the unfinished—
how it lapses
into space
at the end.
5
This is
the real
lesson:
levitation
is the dream
of every
earth-
bound
thing.
6
Other than that,
we go about
our business:
no need to oil
our wheels
from too
much
habit.
Winter prayer
(Lord’s day). Took physique all day, and, God forgive me, did spend it in reading of some little French romances. At night my wife and I did please ourselves talking of our going into France, which I hope to effect this summer. At noon one came to ask for Mrs. Hunt that was here yesterday, and it seems is not come home yet, which makes us afraid of her. At night to bed.
Lord, give a little.
My wife and I lease ourselves to hope:
summer was here yesterday
and is not come home.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 10 February 1660/61.
Preguntas
Who will sift the snow
fine as dust from the eyes of the clock?
Who will find the ring
buried in layers of cake?
How does the tendril on the vine
still believe in the rotary phone?
Who will take off his shoes
to walk across the blistered sand?
When will the child lay
her hand across the mouth of suffering?
Why is the rooster’s crow
indifferent to the progress of snails?
Why should I return
dreams that refuse to open?
Who will instruct
a wounded star?
Who will embroider the cave
with splendid suns?
What is required for you
to take up a weed and dance?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
On the Way to Santiago, 1978
I remember the Moorkiller’s
stone horse in Logroño,
its terrible phallus.
Near the steps that pilgrims
once bloodied with their knees,
the jolly lacemaker.
We yield the road
to sheep, a bicycle race,
old men bowling in the afternoon.
Cheating on Death
To my Lord’s with Mr. Creed (who was come to me this morning to get a bill of imprest signed), and my Lord being gone out he and I to the Rhenish wine-house with Mr. Blackburne. To whom I did make known my fears of Will’s losing of his time, which he will take care to give him good advice about.
Afterwards to my Lord’s and Mr. Shepley and I did make even his accounts and mine. And then with Mr. Creed and two friends of his (my late lord Jones’ son one of them), to an ordinary to dinner, and then Creed and I to Whitefriars’ to the Play-house, and saw “The Mad Lover,” the first time I ever saw it acted, which I like pretty well, and home.
I go to the wine-house
to know my fear
of losing time
and make an ordinary lay
a mad love.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 9 February 1660/61.