There are certain moons to do it under:
a pressed blob of hot red wax, night
as a signet-sealed box.
Dangerously easy. I sniff sawdust
in the woodshed and get to thinking
how simple it'd be to shiver
off the sodden cloth of my skin –
to enter into new conceits of smell,
a bat's knack for catching sound.
The trick is one of memory – forget
that woman from Newcastle who woke
with a Jamaican accent.
A panther turns up outside a zoo
that has never kept big cats. Some naked
loon dashes from the thicket bellowing
and remembering only his name.
The Demise of Narcissus
De quo consultus, an esset
tempora maturae visurus longa senectae,
fatidicus vates “si se non noverit” inquit.
Dear Lord     what is light
if not form     love if not light?
At wood's edge a stag tugs free
of the sun