blackbird, blackbird, the directions far lost;
the open ways have all turn'd within
to find, and rend, the rolling rocks moss:
breaking good visage, to conjure dawn's bend.
Leave it to words to cover colour or deflect
the sun-lightís, only dance into form
and distant, high rising cities;
i cannot take this morsel of production!
Loving forth, in all directions, thy beating arc
reaches and bends the open landscapes
around far flourishing mind; and the
stellar hungers hide within until night-time calls;
For, dark sleep, live heavy waterís way
wilt not ever shape or move through sunís
dominion; letting the budding meadow
into cauldrons of stone or sturdy cement.
But, rather, nightís burdens stay within in the patron that may transport its heavy
way; love and spirit are only
dwarfed by the all mother who awaitsÖ
Floating cloud folly before bright endless ships
could have turned back spring into
winter, into the spirited body,
into the all-motion of orange morning pulls --- out to sea.
I let out a galling yell, a quick burst
of everlast, into the worrisome
night-time; between starlight and
cool grey clouds lusters the motherís voice.
The oceanís currents pull forward and open
my chasms, open the spirited body into her
lusciousness; she shivers with sun-furnaces
and I lick her into daylight and fire.
I tucked in corners afraid of you
and walked a river without shoes or socks;
until I reached a heavy delta that
pulled me beneath its waters, and into you.
You bleed out into the spring-time and your nectar
helps flourish the begotten earth, helps
mend the broken stones whom find no
path short of rolling, in all their lives.
blood turns to green and browns and rotting
tones of death and beginning; time turns
backwards for short moments, and the
red reaches into the tomorrow world, into dust
and I cough, and cough, and spill out the liquids,
the solitary satellites that encircle
thine own secret movements, the secret currents
all within; and tomorrow breaks to piecesÖ
my toes touch hers, and yours, before you can wake
or even take in morningís airy yeasts rising; long
before the slow wondrous voice
rumors what would be lost in sleep;
For, below the waters, there is no murmur
of oceanís weight, or mass, or capacity, to rule
out the motions of winter, or the Mayan
spring; or last september at my lake house.
I hid beneath the covers and looking into
your eyes to tell of secrets darker than
the simple forest could; the oceanís opened up
and I turned, and tossed, inside of you.
The floor rose up and made a mighty footing
for birds; but clouds let go into the higher
spheres, into greater circles that linger
towards mountainous faces and snow drifts;
I laid next to the root to listen
thus, to a slower speaking, of the lifeless rockís far
journeying way; but could only hear
thine own heartís beating like a tide --- alone.
Was it the open ear to miss voicesís meaning
or let the seed fall barren within the soul?
the cloud breaks into autonomous divisions
and leaves me, all wanton for their own way.
The doors are all unsigned and puddles dripping
from a storm that thrashed and mangled
the sensitive bark; the fresh nectar pours
out, onto the ground, and flows out of reach.
I placed one hand on the branch and you
took the other, and lifting our bodies thus;
we climbed the treacherous ways of green
clamouring, and sand-paper skin that hurt afterward.
The leaflets kept us from the rain and
was our gravitation while stretched branch
to branch; your lips touched mine, and
went through me, to the trunk, down to flourish the great earth...