Wednesday, August 14, 2013

14 August 2013

lilikoi @ Esalen
After Akhmatova

The moon’s cool cream pocket has brimmed
& bottled the choir of evening crows.
It’s merely urban citizenry,
crepuscular filibustery.
Who made it my lamplighter
& why does it lampoon me?
Or is this a koan conjuring
vexing voodoo for me?


When friends put sail to their catamaran
I’m mildly troubled but not worried.
If anyone knows how 

they do, still, chancing it 
on water, the heave & hum,
liable to storms
though short-hauling
they can know the weather.
Months now, spring
& all summer, they’ve made port
in Portland,
their Argentine house finished but untried.
Already it’s August, the month 
the great wind starts.

Orare for Argentina

Why irrigate the desert
if no one walks the paths,
looks at flowers.
So many things we bought
there, took there,
what’s missing in our life —
the photo purchased in Carolina —
a sun-blacked heron,

an algae-green pond.

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