Mirror Room
when you have worn yourself down
to the hour’s white pit
who will believe you have been there
dirt pearl of yourself, strange pale root of yourself
you are still here, someone else has run miles
in the cold shining air, you are
here with your feelings, dirt pearl
who shone with accident, empty bowl
who shone, there was too much virtue,
empty painted box, there was no
virtue, just an empty
painted box, pale hour’s root here
waiting white thoughts, shining
axes crack without names on the house
someone else has run miles
in the cold shining air
whole day sitting up for you
strange beaded things you thought
before you were pure, strange
white seeing glittering there
winter empty of water
whole white year you’re alone
I wait for you
in the silk heart of nothing
Untitled (Brief Night)
like a brief night lizard,
wanted you a warm
lamp
but more honest
are no homes
just wind
just brief upfaced palms
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
the cat will come back or not
the stars will be icy and far
the cup will be blue
the water empty
you will be loved as much as you’re loved