Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire. Brenda Hillman

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Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire - Brenda Hillman Wesleyan Poetry Series

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at the marketplace,

      to remember what would transform judgment

      into action if only you could abandon the gifts as if

      they were nothing, after you & the pharaoh’s

      huts are long gone; the dream will not be

      idle when it touches the tip of the match

      to the willing field after the harvest—

       FOR BBH & SM

      The immortals wait in the fields.

      & the newt under the laurel (a dragon

      whose three heads argued

      with themselves—),

      the push thistles, Celastrina echo butterfly

      with automatic semi-colons

      on its wings—(‘twill hide

      under the clorox-

      cloud—& that’s that! some punctuation

      is just too sensitive to

      be outside—)

      Stubby white

      teeth on that baby vole:

      smile on its face—screeep! like

      gnostic Jesus, its comma-comma-comma

      claws. Clause—verbless mosquito-egg

      daylight …

      Worker, dreamer:

      your soul has slept with

      countesses so long

      his hands still smell like money!

      He says to himself:

      my lord the sun has thrown

      his sexual shadow upon me … (oops!

      Where did it go?)

      —It’s just fallen behind something.

      (What has?)

      —Whatever you lost.

      Behind the galaxy, there was a flute:

      sound was making love to sound;

      time was making sound

      to sexual, textual, lexical space—

      we worked too hard, we lay

      near fields from which they gathered plastics—

      mimics & contortionists—under the ping-ping

      of meteors, under made-up constellations;

      the planet flew through space junk

      while the Health Care Bill was being penned

      with pens from Chantix, pens from Lidoderm

      & Protinix, with pens

      from Actos, Lamosil, & Celebrex;

      late autumn made a fire in us;

      the cosmos waited for a sign;

      the soul was waiting for the mind,

      fat chickadees waited for sweet fennel

      [Foeniculum vulgare] & nameless

      asters on side streets where drones

      take violins to the Queen—

      what kind of drones?

      The sounds fly out, for thee—

      we slept as many as the anyway

      where meaning met material, that is,

      inside the personal,

      that is, for love of earth—

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