ENkANTADA

Put it something beautiful

Or hide it beneath rug.

Did you put it? It wouldn’t go

and wrecked my nails while I tried to scratch it in

Fatly, plump and of precision

The ugly young woman put the cup down

Upon the

Mesa.

She was there.

I was a tableau.

We stretched ourselves into a taught and multicolored fiber

we became glittered and we glowed

of body marks of tender stretches

tenders gestured emptily

in all the emptily gestured

toward what ever was in the frame, caught in the instant

was an eidolon in separation
of haunting

hunting or of an apparition

in between look of her laughter escaping sound of her laughing

Rolled up we tried so hard to leave it behind us it would be left behind us

left behind us caught inside the picture

i was a picture woven into a tableau we wove

Below the rug, unsmiling in the oily, unsmiling in the woven

where nothing there was to be removed.

The faces twist grotesque double chins of hysterical laughter

If you paused your own hideous chuckling for an instant

Probably you would be surprised. Maybe you would cry and claim

“it is not me”

to return whatever it was you spent all of your money on.

Let us return to ourselves and to our homes. Let us plough the dirt of our being with our minds and our fingers and let us all hold all of our hands in a circle let us form an undoing and let us let go, wisely we will be there all becoming.

Back to the garden unclamoring, undemanding, let us all try to climb back out of our clothes for foliage

As if nothing ever happened.

Before the first pear fell.

though hast flayed us with thy blossoms.

We could do anything.

We could crush the wet ripe fruit to make us a juice.

I would make a juice for you

Sometime in the morning.

It would be

A juice

Of a fruit

You would want to drink

You would want to travel down

its honey river

Your silver glint

Your feathered crown

You graceful swan

Your greying feather

You swan lover

Or instead would you stop yourself from out biting wildly

You would never let yourself make such a scene

As a bird on a girl

you would never turn around

You would not be struck

At the intersection

Waiting

Or walk across a minute late

Stuck

In the little death

In the click of an instant

You would be no feathered ghost

You would be no luz

You would not be luz

you would take no luz

You would take no picture,

It could only take

if it could only take a picture

And register voice among the registers

To put in some files to be lost

in one of all the archives whiled away, meaningless or burned,

untranslatable and boring, violent

inherently forgetful of themselves as such.

It would be one of those days

When we burn books to keep warm

And my voice could not be yours.

When the winter goes in like a lamb and out

Like a lion.

Or is never a lion

And is never a lamb.

And is only the weather.