seal the next new day between you & I, or
prepare to die on Diana’s altar, sick with grief
& I, like Pyramus, bathe in blood
but I’d rather be a dog & bay
When the Mississippi rolls hot and red
at the beckon of moon tide
This is where America bleeds
This is where her menses hides
The tread of a requiem has strewn the silent prayers
in a perfect circle.
The circle stretches and stretches
and signals a target—
a city built to keep a secret.
When the philosopher Proclus died in 485 he was succeeded, as the leader of Athenian Neoplatonism, by Marinus; but the greatest of Proclus’ pupils…
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He crosses a red field, a red field because the sheep are bleeding, because there are roses there. He fills his basket with rosehips. He peels apart rosehips…
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smitten by night,
be not a darkened window
to housekeepers trembling & bowed
the salient, untraceable beginnings
where worship rises within the riddles
and bulbs defy the cold dark.
Of course the inn is full.
No one believed You had eloped,
and You dare not tell the truth.
Nerves of not-so-young not-quite-lovers
sing still with nicotine twitch,
so signpost obvious in early evening.
each night has its particular music.
state of mind is fluid.
landscapes are multivisional.
you have eyes in the back of your many heads.
Olga Broumas and T Begley’s Jamais Vu — gently traces the “never seen” bardos, the afterlife, with lyrical compositions, fragments that form midline and travel into the space of oblivion. This lyric sings the secret of poetry…
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a partial mission evolves, the familiar
is made partisan, approaching
the divine undressing of
the surrender to a riddle.