We went to the vivarium – to see
the tropical butterflies in a
walk-through biodome. They were
cocooning, their insides filled
with meconium. The cocoons looked
like jade and rosy quartz pendants
for ladies’ ears – with gold worked in,
breathed against treebark.
Belated naturalists we.
I kept repeating to myself:
the mind is not a little spa.
The Mind is not a little Spa.
You can’t retreat to its imaginary
when outside construction
can’t be told from ruin.
The butterflies set themselves
down like easels
on bromeliads, but their brushes
can’t reach to scratch their
Stet Stet Stet
Where the curve of the road rhymes with the reservoir’s
and cleared of the leafy veils that for six months
the landscape’s wet chestnut
in the grey descended cloud
intones You’re lucky to live in a watershed
so no vast tracts of tacky drywall
turn the land into peremptory enclosures.
You’ve bought in.
The venial sin:
And the natural hallucinogen of joy
leaving wordy outputs
hanging on piney tenterhooks
while all the wild protected liminal woods
contrive a blind.
The Eros of Nothing
The icy clearances
where the trees used to cast their shade
in the form of their summary leaf
speak to me of
nothing, carried out to the letter.
Tempests, mountains – the grander genders
submit nothing to the letter.
between the winter equinox
and perihelion keeps growing.
But it will again be nothing.
The black under my nails reminds me
this day’s mystery was in eating a pomegranate
with my small son and on my blue shirt now
Though when the blanched leaves shiver
silent chimes beyond the glass
brings either the rapture [my children . . .]
or self-criticism of one who comes with a theory
[. . . are an economy of scarcity]
of myself there is no more evidence
to admit – only consistent
with limestone’s incessant weeping
cave a madonna’s
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