Standing Stones

Sunlight slices west like a blade—

Sunrise: grey sky, clouds' bellies old lead—

And I in the standing stones, barred by shade.

Is the grass green or blue?

Ask the light.

There is not enough light.

The altar behind me. And birds.

There should be birds, and

Trees, but

No trees here on the hill.

You pose against a door of stone.

You curve against the bright plane.

I press you back against the wall.

Stone bites your back—

Dull bed of nails.

I take your wrists.

I cover you, crucified on stone.

You turn in my hands,

Your spine's a cold snake just finding the sun.

Your hair is the red of teak polished with orange oil.

Your skin is pale cream; it thaws in the cool dawn shade.

I taste your temple. Hair touches my cheek.

Spiders, grass, smoke, cold wire.

You hover against me, a sparrow blown against a wall—

Alert, not panicked, your deer's eyes.

Your eye is mouth high, your head is tilted and turned;

I lean into you.

I gyre in the light to kiss your mouth.

I am no sculptor, to make flesh of stone.

My standing stones, concrete and coarse, cannot hold you.

Where is the weight of granite,

The smooth marble unity of stone?

Imagined, you are not more real than stone.

Beauty is slow as stone, and Truth is grey and brown.

There should be trees.

I should make vines to bind the stones,

Green vines, and blue blooms on grey stone.

Green is the color of memory.

Memory is graceful sleeves dancing.

Memory is naked.

Memory, spread on the altar,

Memory, turns its face to me.

Memory plows earth and breaks on stone.

This is a study in grey and brown.

An orchard at the foot of the hill, and Renoir

beyond the ridge.

I should go down to the river.

I should make rain to cool the sleepless dream.

There should be trees, and birds to cry.

Give me a sip of blood, to remember,

And I will tell how it is, where I live.

Love is no golden woman;

Love is a black dog,

Grey-chinned and lame.

Beauty moves slow; love not at all.

–March, 2002