Yareah Magazine

1.
The lean moon
becomes full and is swallowed

and this is not an archipelago

which speaks

  water to the land

or even the bones in one hand

the name fades
the grass intrudes
  the grave is lost

and with it the rough spring wind

and this is not an archipelago

2.
The chorus in high register
everyone
speaking at once

a few bars
a couple of vertebrae

which house

genital warmth
heavy
shoes on the stage

the spoon
inside of the bowl
emptying

every
bone in the human body

his trumpet
held up
level with the ground

3.
Placed side by side
 an image of wet pavement
  a sailor

  medicine

the whole of humanity

in one small room

no room anymore for the bed

  we sleep

(as moles as spineless grubs)

burrowed in the ground

This island
raked
together at my feet

4.
And this is not the human body
(on the stage
  tambourine in hand)
no matter what the numbers say

The knowable world overflows
 and in the mess that follows
  in the blank heat

in mud rolled up
 the size of a man

(who, lacking tissues to hold himself upright,
collapses again
into the water)

 no more
songs from the soft mouth,

no more complicated bodies, nerves
reduced once more
to  a simple eyespot

after years in conversation with the ground

after endless war
has covered everything in soot

and no one cares if you’re drowning

  after
 arms red at the bone

after the shutter of the camera
 jams open

after the cylinder containing
the human voice is cracked

after the hide of any animal
 is mistaken
for one’s own

this is not the human body
5.
Among the roots of trees—Take
and count one by one

until it is out of the reach of my voice

6.
History is red,
bitten hairs at its neck.

Wind bends it forward.

Soil. Darkness
of empty
houses, many now
leaning to one side.

Wax
letters pressed in cement
the name unmade
the letter ‘O’ out of place
 
no longer
  
to sound

damp, unsteady ground

The full weight
 of a wet branch
  the full
plot of the grave
 sunken in
seven inches. Pooled water
 
that the mind
  
enlarges

The  boat’s mouth

opened

and the soldiers streamed out

 onto the beach

  to draw

the outline of a continent

in red

7.
The saddest song in all the world

leak

 until empty

No more will awaken

No more

to the bar room in the smallest hours

Can’t buy no beer

8.
Fill his mouth with nickels
 
because there are things

that 25 years

in the nuthouse won’t cure

it won’t cure the skeleton

and it won’t cure electrons
turning and shaking

or the 26
million year

circuit of the galaxy

wrapped around his body like a belt

9.
Now that they have closed the libraries
 where can we go
  to hear

the rough spring wind
 meet the Atlantic

war (at least the war in miniature) 

a song along the lines
 of love, careless love.

Or see

the groundnut shells

littering the floor of the world

one shell

to carry your body
 
 another

  to carry

the rest of your body.

The little screen
lights up  
but the war is not here.

10.
With ceremony—The grave
covered over with a cloth
and then painted. A dense array
of objects—fence wire, thermos, shirt,
a small plastic boat and a splintered tree.

11.
At last, at last

 (in a low voice)

The wind stretches out
 
 a sheet of metal

Even the elements are still

 and on the ground

  in pieces

even

the names are cracked

  in two

even the naked

frame, the fence

  posts of the body

fallen down

even the road is broken

even the movie theater burned

                       +
                THOMAS
                   GRAY
                     PVT
               US ARMY
          WORLD WAR II
                1915-1975

12.
Went down to the river

but the ferry never arrived.

The long grass
matted on the graves
 weeds bent low
  among ruined monuments

overturned vase, its lip
 caved in

 but not
 for lack
 of tenderness

 but of money

and no law to set the stones upright

 or hold back
  wind behind a wall
until everyone who knew you
 has gone.

  Placed
with flowers on the ground

as simple as that.

And a voice

  to sing.
A way to speak through the ground
 a slip of paper
  a bottle of whiskey
placed with flowers
 into the faded grass
to be done with it.

Bury
the dust
beneath the bed
because

grieving is not good.

It is known.

The first flower
grew at
the edge of a stream.

http://www.uglyducklingpresse.org

Information on Olympia Street: www.17poets.com/wst_page5.html
Information on Carbon: www.uglyducklingpresse.org
Michael Ford’s blog: www.starspangledbanana.blogspot.com