The night was almost too long to bear
Then there was evidence of mercy-a passing car-
milky air-and I could see
dry walls & gravel on the way to a highway
Atlantic for its grays

Loss is the fulfillment of the Law
Space collected on a long line

I was eliminated as a locus of mothering-
a she-physical but imaginary as a restless daughter

Why this body and not another

The one who came to destroy the works of women-their
offspring-
knew how many people were resisting incarnation
He counted on them by accommodating them

Guilt relieving guilt
is the get of killers whose mouths shine
I can't say enough about this-red because sore
& polished because wet

One died to become the spirit-guide
Before that time
there were second persons in everything
Then saints, then no one
to guide anyone to heaven
Cosmic expansion has gone in its preferred direction

I can hear the hour, this never
happed to me before
One day I will shake the blue sky from my hair
and slip back to consciousness-
the thing that is always aware
with or without a living creature to share its pleasures

Tonight I request the precious gift of final perseverance
shored up in my sheets
not far from a predawn holocaust
of traveling children

-Fanny Howe

"It is impossible to know reality for the same reason that makes it impossible to sing potatoes; they may be grown, or pulled, or eaten, but not sung. Reality has to be 'been': there should be a transitive verb 'to be' expressly for use with the term 'reality'." -Psychoanalyst  W. R. Bion quoted in Mark Epstein's book Going on Being.

 Actually it is much easier to hum a potato than sing one. Whistling a potato might seem to be the easiest method to reflect the melody of a tuber.  But I spent countless days as a child trying to get it right. To no avail.  I did learn to speak banana. However I have lost that skill. Sadly there is no culture for it.

The beech leaves move up and
Down my spine, shimmering,
Flipping like cards-from mint to
Scalding white. The wheels turn 
In the vegetable light. Pin wheels.
Somewhere inside me is
Condensation, breath on
Clear glass, thought hushing
The place where things stick,
Where a mark is a diamond.

My hand is growing in the
Grass, wondering itself in
The simple form that contains
Everything. My name is not
My hand. Only the sun, falling
In sheets, patting my head,
Patting my shoulder, knows
The name of each thing.

Each part is jigsawed to fit
Somewhere, to hold itself
Against another. We keep
Coming back, the picture
Grows clearer, the gaps
Shrink and our resolve moves
Across the ground. Things
Fill in.

I see that it is moving inside
Something else. Evidence is
All around me. Something
Green is scooting through
The tall grass. The wind is
Such a puppeteer I think.
Now my hand is resting
Just below the surface
Holding everything like
A waiter with a tray held
High overhead, about to
Serve.

I nailed that sucker down
To the hot wood and leaned
Over it, deepening it with my
Free shadow.
"How's that feel," said I.
"Sweet fellowship," said the dark prisoner.
The day was moving and life was
Changing for these jet lovers,
The one crucified, the other faultless.
After the sun went down I used the
Rudiments of triangulation.
Location, location, location...
Knowing the geometry of nails
Doesn't lie I stirred the black
Crepe from its dozing.
"In your element, aren't you?" said I.
"Darkness, darkness," shrugged my shadow.