a tasty death is cooking in your pot next door
in your neighbour’s grate
a pine log quietly incinerates a hundred years

summer’s always gloomy  like walls that succour ivy
yet the road goes through fire to winter’s end

looking out from fire  windows
still wash the dim night clean one by one
the pines’ clipped iron shadows stand outside the window
revising your skeletons

green sun bursts into stones without knocking
the vicious scene when one word bursts into two poems
affirms  the poet’s dislocated mouth
you look like fish all barbecued together


              in another time
sky’s heavy blue  rams birds into the clay
twilight a diligent saw on the branches
tree stump’s tragic smile  a powerless revenge

              in a time that separates us
a skeleton-shaped table squeezes up to another
the dead who never left
like lamps  silently explode in the pinecones
shake bats’ downy jetblack ears

               another moment
we are still this silent unfinished work
rammed into the clay by each voice  left
to be a one-word today
to be a famous tongue that once crawled on antique china


to be forgotten is good fortune  she says
let those who don’t know weariness learn to remember

every woman begins by touching her body
she says  all dark wisdom coincides with corruption

blood  lights the last candle
then the purple night sky starts spinning wounds

a maggot digging a tunnel conceals a tiny death
trapped, hibernating death

a dead woman  like an unread author
walks about downstairs pregnant with a secret child

angels  bats with wizened paps  draw in their wings
hang upside down beneath snow-white skin

she says  the murderous hand is tired of being lent
boredom is the only bed

on the little lake the watersnakes come and go
she stands on the bank  is moonlight unconcerned with itself

when a lunar eclipse touches flesh a black swamp seeps out
  so a woman changes into something else


closest to the dead is a poem by someone living
a possible grave hidden in the sky
like an impossible attic  locked in the dust
spider or fly corpses
carved boxes designed for ghostly living
until my hand  opens the chance-left fingerprints
mice on the stair stepped on and revived

light woken a century past
is squeaking  cuts down the poet’s crazy shadow
cloud standing on the slates
in the habit of mouldering into a grey-white ankle
a single recitation closest to the living
that like relics casually checks my fingers
has shown  the shame we all should feel


our flesh bricked up the windowsill
from the flame  we watch a pine log catch flame
a curled-up wrist
twitch  shiver  abruptly stretch out wild beast’s claws

flame and flame forged in a mirror
let all that’s sunk deep in mercury
be scraped out by sight  we stand outside our own windows

with a chisel of nothingness carve out a face
keenly-honed face  tongue rising in a carved vase
as the sound of the wind multiplies in the throat  is gripped in a vice
a poet  like used-up afterbirth  is shed by the poem

the earth’s red iron gates are always clanging shut at our ear
tombstones  more famous than us
fat feast of corpses
the eyes revealed on either side of a century are twins

were crazy  wrote nothing down
were only then carved out by what died in our hearts

only then soliliquised  only then feared the cold
grabbed the cards with claws of flame and of wild beasts  a playing card
separates two wounds watching each other  us