*
Torn and its fur
licking the frost on these buttons—my coat
as a trapper still reaching in
drags off my sleeves to where they kneel
and snow rotted into dust
falls forever through the house
—who can crawl and not heart that howl
that paw snap upright from primordial ice
for the first time against the thin Earth
the knock that would follow forever
—from habit I slam this door
closed, open
as if the ice could loosen
and this coat swimming through the hinges
disappears into the ceiling, the water
that was sacred, from above :a ceiling
still white :the snow
shaken loose, crawling away
—from habit I flick the switch
as if the ice could melt
replace each bulb with another
filled with light from beams
once sweet to drink, so low
and falling—I lick my coat
kneel in its cage
that smells like a mask, like my breath
bubbling over waters, like thorns.
Nothing drinks. Not even my arms.
Not the wood, not even the oceans
that had room for me.
*
The plumage in this narwhal’s side
lifts as every birth tangled in water
bleeds from a place it’s not wanted
—one feather left
splashing and splashing, the sea
dead, drifting, all these waves
torn from one gill
—night after night a breath
so huge in my chest
and the Earth rolling on its side
bloated with air and pain.
Choking almost helps.
I carry this enormous breath
back to its sea, its silt again
then rise into moonlight :tides
trying to revive these waves
as if underneath all wings
there are no roots and water now
weighs less :the whale
tumbles each night closer
circling to gather speed
and its blood
as streams will wither
on the mountain inside
—in this darkness
everything is red :the moon
floating away or I cough
or walk like a sunrise
—again that birth :the sky
chased from my side and emptying.
*
Face up this darkness
almost catching fire, the wallpaper
side by side like a door closing
clicks! the old bulb brooding again
exploded, tried to dry its heart
as every night soaks up
the still dripping Earth
—this cremated bulb
started out red :a shade
calling everyone home
more and more trains
till no light made it through
and the mouths one on top another
so black even stars can’t get out
—you pour more coffee
afraid my fingers are too dry, pour
till the air is without air
is an endless grate :a fountain
rubbing its sleeve on a list
read outloud to those eyes
that sound like words
and you make believe it’s words.
That damn train again! Pouring
as if a train was passing
and its rails dripping—Here Here Here
Here :names on every wall, Here Here
on the ledges, Here Here Here on the margins
Here on the question marks! their names
must grow inside those trees
huddled then cooked into paper—no name
rises out, no name wipes off
or these packed walls
enroute to the stacks, the riverbanks
the smallest branches stopped listening
—you pour the cracked cup for yourself
know it’s the one I will grab
like the light from another room :a boxcar
creaking, filled with shadows
holding on to a wall
as if they could stop
or this bulb dark enough
black enough, ever in time.
*
Tighter than a branding iron :my flashlight
worn down—I will name him
and his cheek melt from the wound
—he will bleed, recognize the kiss
that clinks :an anchor torn open from
outside
delivered in the dark, letters tangled,
missing
and from his crib the cries
the way lost-at-sea
sailors listen for their name.
I will twist these batteries
so no one hears creaking in every oak
chosen from among the quietest leaves
as sails still bandage a breathless mast
—his name will heal :a scar
where a star still alive
over his cheek heavier than water
and in that dark
sent to the bottom
waiting to say his name
—two names :the second chance
—flames favor the dead, refire
but only once :my son
named after me, at night
with a burning-glass :this flashlight
as if some need-fire
without any ashes
names him and trembling.
