Part 2: the fever spirit
Wings: ornate; weary
Sand, shining
where the sun met it at awkward angles,
voracious and mindless, in its armies of rolling dunes
grasped the falling palm
which found no rock, a place
no dew remains from morning.
What finds root in this circleless land?
Gone are geraniums; from the sun hibiscus hides.
The melon dehydrates, and I
am fruitlessly digging for apples
burning pyres to rememberances of night,
which here falls never.
Only the vigilant sun
unblinking, unarching
across cloud-dead sky in circles,
abolishes rain
owns the sky with its golden authority
demolishes all but its lover sand.
Tumbled, in his sparkling expanse, I
breathe the breath of furnaces,
waiting for a surface.
Furnaces, steel eye of fire
buzz their voices out of streetlamps
(O where are their lonely lamplighter?
have they gone home to warmth of wives?
or have they swam in drink again,
drowning their obscelesence?
Have I seen them, burning beside me?)
Ragged Persephone, caged
dangles sencers above the shifting sands.
Eyes unfixed upon so many sinking
I pray the strength to sink may fill so many.
Slowly, slowly hearts are purged
by the beating magnum orb overhead.
We fell silent for many years
Playing as buried gods, breathing fumes.
(che ciò che trova attivo quivi, tira
in sua sustanzia, e fassi un’alma sola,
che vive e sente e sé in sé rigira.)
Ebony, oak, and other woods
from Prime Minister's bedrooms
shape the minds of hollow men,
the Fever Spirit, who waits in them
as epiphanies pulsing waiting,
with unassuming eyes he sits
distributes dates to passerbys,
rejected by most, otherwise
politely recieved and lost in pockets
he is left only with stammered goodbyes.
Arriving, barefoot, the ivory house
he would never enter: a beggar, by
nature, to the cufflinks of human kindness,
the bustling city faces, who
found the iron coffer, produced key and lock
and proceeded to auction off the peices of Osiris.
O, frozen minds,
divided into sections the virgin moon,
found fevers circling, black clockwise
vultures above breathing sands.
The Fever Spirit approaches, without digressing
places a dull mark upon the door;
surveys the appropriate silence, and
sets to work with minimalist grandeur.
Charcoal bones are soon removed,
Loving, yet efficent, a surgeon below a wild moon.
Marrow of burnt wood becomes
ivory beneath dark fingers, immaterial.
With ivory bones I
a lamplighter
tumble the lights
that ring the desert.
the sun beats:
a fern roots among
the shifting sand.
Sand, shining
where the sun met it at awkward angles,
voracious and mindless, in its armies of rolling dunes
grasped the falling palm
which found no rock, a place
no dew remains from morning.
What finds root in this circleless land?
Gone are geraniums; from the sun hibiscus hides.
The melon dehydrates, and I
am fruitlessly digging for apples
burning pyres to rememberances of night,
which here falls never.
Only the vigilant sun
unblinking, unarching
across cloud-dead sky in circles,
abolishes rain
owns the sky with its golden authority
demolishes all but its lover sand.
Tumbled, in his sparkling expanse, I
breathe the breath of furnaces,
waiting for a surface.
Furnaces, steel eye of fire
buzz their voices out of streetlamps
(O where are their lonely lamplighter?
have they gone home to warmth of wives?
or have they swam in drink again,
drowning their obscelesence?
Have I seen them, burning beside me?)
Ragged Persephone, caged
dangles sencers above the shifting sands.
Eyes unfixed upon so many sinking
I pray the strength to sink may fill so many.
Slowly, slowly hearts are purged
by the beating magnum orb overhead.
We fell silent for many years
Playing as buried gods, breathing fumes.
(che ciò che trova attivo quivi, tira
in sua sustanzia, e fassi un’alma sola,
che vive e sente e sé in sé rigira.)
Ebony, oak, and other woods
from Prime Minister's bedrooms
shape the minds of hollow men,
the Fever Spirit, who waits in them
as epiphanies pulsing waiting,
with unassuming eyes he sits
distributes dates to passerbys,
rejected by most, otherwise
politely recieved and lost in pockets
he is left only with stammered goodbyes.
Arriving, barefoot, the ivory house
he would never enter: a beggar, by
nature, to the cufflinks of human kindness,
the bustling city faces, who
found the iron coffer, produced key and lock
and proceeded to auction off the peices of Osiris.
O, frozen minds,
divided into sections the virgin moon,
found fevers circling, black clockwise
vultures above breathing sands.
The Fever Spirit approaches, without digressing
places a dull mark upon the door;
surveys the appropriate silence, and
sets to work with minimalist grandeur.
Charcoal bones are soon removed,
Loving, yet efficent, a surgeon below a wild moon.
Marrow of burnt wood becomes
ivory beneath dark fingers, immaterial.
With ivory bones I
a lamplighter
tumble the lights
that ring the desert.
the sun beats:
a fern roots among
the shifting sand.