Thursday, October 30, 2014

Isfahan Weaver, ca. 1600

The wefts and warps
     are wool, wool and silk
form the foundation
     and pile, steeped first
in indigo, buckthorn
     berries, saffron and
madder, larkspur. See
     where the weaver
has plaited into
     the odd Persian knot—
among the three hundred
     every hour, eight
hours a day for eight
     hundred days—a strand
of her own ebony hair, 
     how it still reflects
the sun, these centuries
     later, as she must
have known it would,
     must have hoped
you would imagine
     her here, today, combing
each new row into
     place, her eyes lifting
for a brief, capricious
     look above the loom.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014


The thrush taking advantage
of a two-hour slime trail—now,
from above, a gleaming runway—
to hone in on and, without scuffle
or compunction, snap up and down
the doughty snail.

The sun’s solar-eclipse fan
dance that says, hey, look at me,
big boy, and then crisps your retinas
for your gullibility and cheek.

Or the children who insinuate,
mentally map themselves into
our synaptic topography, fill
the RAM slots of our motherboards,
flood oxytocin over our reptilian brains—
until one day they don’t return whole,
or ours, or at all, a jealous universe 
always recalibrating in its favor.

Monday, October 27, 2014


Harrows scything
only smoke,
tractors retracing
the fields north
to south, south
to north, not
out of habit
alone, out
of love for
lost things.