By Art Durkee Jul 15, 2007, 11:57 GMT
Zuni II
fire ants make orbits and moundsgravid tower and ravaged soilcircle of devoured earth, inorganic, lunarthe end of the earths, dead seas, plains of firesome catchtrap for worker, larva, queennest of desire, bed of passion, fire of earth
enter seek hidden breath
hidden breath and holdingshoulder to sandtorso and tendril the inhalationworker mind its barrowwarrior swarm the horse's shank
tenderness of tenders in the nurserylash of red queen and white servile drones
the amazed living follicle breathin the blessed and barren dark and warm
******
this is the festival of the changing of the light
at the window, the child looks outat inward dusk, quiet, fading;from the shoulders of the manstanding on the hillcrest, wings unfurl,and spread to cover the sky;the moon glows whiteabove red smoke sunset clouds,a button on a crimson sash—
somewhere else, not here,the moon's full: a surfer finds his waveunder her fulfilling light,phosphorescent water nipping ankletstill with board he disappearsunder the foaming curl—
another moon, else, greening,tangible shoulders of the stagunder cedars, head raised to samplethe air for food, shelter, mate,eyes indistinguishable from shadows,a heart the shape of muscular rope—
and the light keeps altering,moon by moon each minute,seen in the world's changing,an altar of violet shadows, each
horse at breath
The light comes from somewhere,though the drizzle conceals. Perhapsa farmhouse at the end of the road.Pelt silvered with dew, the motionless horselooms out of the mist,a rock suddenly noticed, yet always there.It's strange that the eye sees first.He doesn't move, head bowed low,but his breath steams in the dusk.He is dreaming of winter apples,of the phantom pocketed sugarcube,the satisfaction of new hay.There's a barn somewhere, though he needs itonly from human habit.His opened heart is a river; the whole field is his mare.Her muzzle-caress almost visible,they stand in the drizzle, breathing.
Wintermind
Now winter. Fallen leaves still on the walk. We stand talking in the road, kicking leafpiles to see them fly, then wander down to the river. This cruel wind. No hat on, the drizzle soaks my head, hair in my eyes, drops going down the back of my collar. Spinning red maples fall over in brash display, scuff and shatter. The sky glooms and lowers. Somewhere I lost my way.
rain turns to wet snowducks thrash turgid black waters—my eyes washed by tears
When the singer died, I was in the desert. Canyons filled with light, fresh snow, sublime tender evergreens. The silence deepened by memories, now that you've gone. Then, an echo of jays. Looking up, turkey vultures circled over dry arroyos, red earth broken by snow patches. Looking down, even the chollo seemed hunched over. Will we ever play again together? Perhaps in the western lands, beyond the sea.
guitar of dead leavesscattering gusts of music—mute song of passing
Art Durkee's blog is at http://artdurkee.blogspot.com/
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