the spirit of dirt
for the sleepless beneath us
aroused as larvae to love like flies
surrender is the hunger of dream & the soul
a hole not yet ravished
all the instars
what's essential?
does a seed a star opens couple with dirt
a flourishing that surrenders intercourse
as does a flower & its fly that carry birth
bear the welfare of earth—the copulation
one in the dark that the other encloses?
what's below?
flowering rot-holes preserve & protect—these parents of root-holes
the deathless are born to so that a periwinkle may begin to become
to endeavor & give back this coming to light from a dark where they
come alive to love—all this bearing forth of ours in the end here
where integuments a star will open surrender the dead
Bury
only in the dead can we begin to become to endeavor & give back what they demand of us—a bearing forth so that the deathless may dwell—they who rely upon the perishable to protect & preserve this excess of bloom
Walking With Parmenides
Not changes nothing in that everything may perish.
In the nature of things it must be as if nothing is—a not
ever present like a horizon that flees a two-headed approach
(or does it beckon?)—every not the thought of nothing
& every not the brazen lock that restrains a thought
try & think the sustaining-plot of the deathless
where nothing becomes (not its garden)
& nothing nourishes—soils that bear showers beneath
& a show of light or urge that grows a place of not
where souls bear forth with a restless dark (all about
an absent star cannot this a cold universe extinguish!)
—all that we mean by the fullness of not
(that makes us shift place & exchange bright color)
—the perishing always holding-on to an approach
—this everlasting that comes from a beginning to end.
A god is not that changes nothing.
It must be that what is there for speaking & thinking of is; for it is there to be, whereas nothing is not; that is what I bid you consider (Fragment 6)
wintertime
among the dead death is the way to get born just as birth
death among their progenitors; for a god a womb—those
who never can in an embryo
Lovers
death is the drawing out of what is secreted by birth, fire, the drawing out
of what is sealed in trees, flood of what is occluded in the old sea
mudflow in what is eclipsed by roots of germinating seed, or a mile of wind
what is a cloud of flowering things, for put away in this drawing out
is a pulling in embraced by pollen tube, soil pore, erect, hard rock, furrows
of hot dirt & an open embryo
After Life
In the eternity required of dirt to ruin the dead to a dark that will erode
light (the sediment of which is the stuff birth’s the spoil of), with death
those deathless are born into it, for these embryos, by sex, swell into
leaves of death—black, not green in this promiscuous emptiness.
Resurrection
We, who copulate, seek to conceive life of the dead, & we (the dead) seek
to conceive a god’s death for what else is an embryo pregnant with?
Blue Eyed Grass
To Copulate
as might a womb that excites a God who conceives a tomb for rapture, sex
is a way to exalt the dead—those who are raised up by organs of excess
& in conception capture by sperm & egg the entire effort of the everlasting
