No Other Truth. No Other Love.

Springing from niches,
the dead pile up
in the neighborhood
like mountains of old tomes--
brutal philosophies,
unpermitted poetry,
odd memoirs.
They guard the horizon.

There is a price to pay
for our faith and our doubt.

I hear them singing. Pulses
of light reveal a corpse in the mud--
a migrating bird--for a moment,
its every move a possibility of escape.
We live on the same earth.
White passages closing the circle,
sections burn themselves
into a steady, winking beat.

It is not too soon
for the melancholy season.

Pleasure powerful, twelve lean dead
towards a beautiful decay
and pity those who can't be miserable.
Saltwater experiments, deep all over,
buy golden anchors and uncommon calm.
Frayed ropes lead from effect
back to cause--better the suffering,
holy upon holy, mind upon mind.

The Great Not

He's the great not.
His parents more than any
failed to notice who came out.
It was too new.

I am before I, he says,
writing the to be true.
It is quite today.
A very everything, he adds,
and frankly sentimental with deep.
He laughs, failing to convince them.

No, it isn't what it isn't.
I wouldn't be the judge.
New, he is today.
I'm a mysteriously immune connection.
What should I do but your desire?