Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire. Brenda Hillman
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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
GRAMMAR OF THIS LIFE AT NOON
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.
GEMINID SHOWERS & HEALTH CARE REFORM
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—
LATE AUTUMN STORMS AT PIGEON POINT
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