BIRCH SYRUP after René Char
Untainted—the candle relights itself—as if to say—as if
The molten fontanelle—though short-lived—composes a defiant breathing
I was born when rock was born—& then when Rock was born
The Superstitious Wounds—on tour—told my teen story deafeningly—so well & so often —that only the hammered attitude survives
No lyrics discernible—only boulders too large to move—plowed around—hided by lichen & moss
When running full-tilt—it is a soft surprise to brush one’s warm fur up against—the lime fur of what is ancient-hard—but slowly slowly—lichen & moss are breaking it down
It is urgent also to keep at tilt—I would rather write marginalia—than cleverse
If the poem is unrecognizable as poetry—then that sense of The Elect we were taught to bring to the act of reading poetry—is evaded
A cuff of rusted fence wire—it kept the cows out for 80 years—now its empty hoops rest all modern-seeming—half shadow-doodle—on my Alexander Calder book
