below in the dead kingdom
beneath our present being
where yesterday is a thin thing
setting between long
forgotten statues of cold marble horsemen.
In the long houses of mythology
The forgotten one
has asked with many ancient riddles,
cratered corners with no luminous visitors.
i cry tears for those who are thirsty
as i wander passages
weaving beauty out of unimportance
not for myself but for others--
wonder at the passage of distant stars
in worn drinking cups.
the apartment of my imagination
is not too dreary
that a sparrow may be lost among silver spoons
or words crossed out with a well used pen
--or quiet like candle light
nude as weightless needs
disorder the alphabets
i inscribe on the onion paper of hope
my flesh decreasing.
so are the molecules of my visions
that swarm above the dead
and their smooth listening eyes
and i discover that in mercy
i can formulate no equation
that can make beauty visible to a world
that desires conformity
and subtract the lesser planets
as after thoughts ..