Also, realized the other day that I had broken one of my early poetry "rules": to wit, "never use the word 'jewel' in a poem." But I think it works in that. I would post it, except that . . . the file appears to have been corrupted. Argh. Thank god I printed it out last week; but the printout is at home. In the meantime, here's a very weird thing I dug out of some uncorrupted files. It's more like bits of good lines than a poem.
These letters don't lie: an arrow
Traveling through paper, through roses, through windows
To hit in the sun, in the cleft of the garden.
A chase scene: the disassociation of creation,
Passing over the patio, by the palms, between
The branches in twilight and my vermilion fingers.
A cicada expands like two arcs over a wave
And finds there snowy and aerial constructions.
My road triangulates with those of the sleeping.
The earth remembers: murmuring
Uprooted, the electric armoire
Whose frog-filled depths gleam with breast meat
and brilliantine. We'll never be as sendantary
as our compatriots. Because of this, we will be painted,
delirious, desired as the only thin ones left. Songs
In Arabic, in Pashto, will be composed. Letters like knots,
Like rivers of napalm, like a forest under construction, will
Multiply for us: their lucid cheeks, their lustrous petals!
There are some ships that sail under the heavy branches,
that creak and wither like a mountain ridden
With monsters. Not ours. But their broken flower offerings
Are the crossroads and spirals of our hope.