Second Autobiography

What dances in a day is not nightfall,
like my marriage to the Moon
but made of lustre worn grey by clouds
or spilling gold in your open arms.

If I had a hatchet amid the woodlands
I might throw it into a steel hued stump
and walk amid the nettles in tucked in boots
to deliver a message of fury
to the coddled dumb men
who brought their girlfriends out into the white white snow.

Through mix of rabble like ugly cattle
do i work in simple song, humming through
mechanical insect's measure and ignoring
clockworks of Accomplishment as they cantanker
by the paths that should be witness
to the Moon's dark gloom, its half light
a shroud hung from boughs as rough as land
and like myself, working to no avail but for
the small unnoticed beauty that is my Life.

Those men and women here
they do not matter
for I know their simple frail orbits
like the deepening crosshatching on my hands and fingers
that wear there with age
and I am too tired to sleep a day as Red as them away
when I gaze imploringly,
trying to find their Virtue.

Out in meadows and privately engendered
to the Dark as night may fall upon blueish hue,
I wonder if anything has ever worked
even the contrast of ugly favors like calling collect
or the huge/small image of voicedial
winding around the sky invisibly in networks of sound
that nestle in our lives like rivers but without song,
reminiscent of old Dali paintings
where it wasn't clear then
that ghosts had made up their minds to spoil this Earth
by residing in the hallways of men and women's thoughts,
rustling through their architecture and out into the things I observe
in the quiet solicitudes of sadness.

I should tell the winter rose that I am sick
for all it does is create another rose
while I need cream, and eggs, and butter
and human gibberish to salt the bones before my grave turns heavy
with broken song of body's betrayal

for now i will stay
and wonder without awe
about all the times the Good turned out flawed
as for my scars
they rest in me like deserts
and I can tell you now
that I do not care
except when windows glow with morning mist
and lanterns spill their volumes of glaze
while somewhere I imagine
that Spring will tend to us
as the old oak will grow