Thursday, March 1, 2007

Peter Ciccariello


There was more to the story
Than he let on
That his toes were like bent nails
And the moonwhite sand was unbearably hot
The waves had warned him
And tossed his uncomfortable nature
Back at his flamboyancy several times
Suddenly the chenille noctilucence
Which by now had fallen like a limp wet bird
Surrounded his heart
Manufacturing a black iron clip
To hold him back
From the licking of the tepid forgetful waves
Where an orange moon, round, as the head of the Buddha
Waited patiently
For the ocean to swallow him
Like a spoon

When we were fluent

When we were fluent
And everlasting
And the economy of our landscape
All burgeoning and rose madder
Just like you remembered it
And hoped it would continue
Even now when we are burned alive
And remembering
We were there once
Supple and smooth
All of our history yet to happen

So impossibly far away

So impossibly far away
Your voice full of oranges
And salt spray
The things you say do not seem real
Here as this leaden sky stalls above us
Splatters of rain smashing on the car roof
Rt. 6 west towards Hartford
The rust just beginning to show
On the tips of the Pin Oak branches
The car flying above the trees
Guernsey and Holsteins
In the air about us
Passing a valley farm lip-synched
Thinking how I know
That’s where I would live
With my elemental collectibles
Deliberate with the river S curving
Back in on itself
Giving myself time
To curve back myself
Multiplying everything
I have done in my life
Dividing out the things that mattered
And setting them free
In little newspaper boats
Each outfitted
With it’s own candle
I would sit at night
Amid a thousand fireflies
Counting the heifers as they bellowed
Amid my boats
Thinking of how you sounded so tired
In the land of plenty
Sea otters basking in a sun
That never stops shinning

all of the earth to walk

all of the earth to walk
and i end up here
leaf litter
and always the bit of bone
to remind one
that you really must watch
out where you are going
the lap, lap
of tiny disturbed waves
against the black mud
and swollen rocks
thankful that the sun
still reaches this far
thankful that the ripples
are the only sound

Hot Chocolate

Here, I have invented hot chocolate
In this cold cold room
I drink the heat first
Next the sweet darkness
Then the void at the bottom of the cup
When it is gone the vessel fills with despair
And fish fly in the sky and birds drown in the sea

No comments: