The Agony in the Garden, Eugène Delacroix, Metropolitan Museum of Art (CC0 1.0)
Allegro Con Brio: The Descent
To quantify the winter
writing a symphony
of bones, I'm trying
to sleep on thin air
but how do we measure
the quality of absence
when each vision brings
a new set of rules?
Perhaps a thin blanket
underneath & a re –
alignment of spine?
They say to do without
offers the body recovery
from the unkindness
we have done
ourselves.
The shine of day fades
& for a moment
all is as he wanted –
designed to teach us
in almost absence
the mysteries of absence
with the first notes
rising to meet
a different darkness
of this tired same-self
tempo rises &
falls, natural
in progression
as the wonder
of our being
continues on
in a journey
against winter
how many ways are there
to weigh a day in life
on thin air?
Is it all
just what we make of it,
the imperceptible limits
of making judgements,
or am I truly falling?
Marcia funerbre: At Pleasure With Movement, With Sleep
Miscalculated the long
way
down
no surprise
in bones having finally cracked
leaking out an adagio,
second movement
with great expansion,
into the unfamiliar
as the temperature drops
lungs & heart in collaboration
begin to wonder if this
might be the down drift
of the dream that
pushes us into
tomorrow
silent until the turn
when veins have risen,
pulled into narrative
each drop, crimson
in having been wished
yet blue hued in visions
of a home called gun powder,
the other a bag of flour
too close to the stove,
will this body ignite?
Can we call each
star as if it were
a tooth in the mouth,
hurrying our tempo along?
When did we divorce
the performer?
When did sleep switch
places with symphony
to hollow our bones,
& blacken my eyes?
Scherzo: A Moon With Anger
the moon demands
a harvest of blood,
instead receives only
verses made of laughter
when the visions come
find bones in thin air –
hip & shoulder supporting,
shoulder blades touching
one leg sprawled,
in our honesty we have given
the music our most vulnerable,
each self sits in the audience
& wonders on the movements
in this symphony of sleep
but if you listen carefully
you will find the
slow wave delta
stages combined:
performer & place
where plurality lingers
& even the informal
after-wake, mouth of this
mud tongue come to life
the whole orchestra is in on it,
knew to wear their silliest haircuts
only to return in the light
to their uncut selves
while here we are,
having opted for
permanence,
a calculated risk
where the moon's anger is
an algorithm of misfortune
having mistaken desire for disgust
Finale: Paradox of Sleep
rapid wild or walking dreams
where deep in the winter of
bones I find another reality
where heart & lungs mimic
wakefulness in the after-wake
tongue of our spirit delta
intertwine in love me love
me not
spirit us somewhere
to return to: a valley of wind
or garden with lightness, a
river with darkness
the rondoic repetition of eyes
always half open, unable to
find fully what lay before us
in our honesty we have given
the music our most vulnerable
true to night we have found
the down drift to carry us
forward into tomorrow
will this body ignite
upon realizing
the symphony of
winter bones &
plurality are simply
a containment of self?
Singular the soloist,
divorced from performer,
trying to salvage the scene
but realizes too late
the ineptitude of syllables
& settles softly on
patterned repetition
it was & almost I am
we were & almost are
they've been & will be
