Ghost ship of my life,
Weighted down by coffins
On the evening tide
All All and All the Dry Worlds Lever
All all and all the dry worlds lever,
Stage of the ice, the solid ocean,
All from the oil, the pound of lava.
City of spring, the governed flower,
Turns in the earth that turns the ashen
Towns around on a wheel of fire.
How now my flesh, my naked fellow,
Dug of the sea, the glanded morrow,
Worm in the scalp, the staked and fallow.
All all and all, the corpse’s lover,
Skinny as sin, the foaming marrow,
All of the flesh, the dry worlds lever.
Fear not the waking world, my mortal,
Fear not the flat, synthetic blood,
Nor the heart in the ribbing metal.
Fear not the tread, the seeded milling,
The trigger and scythe, the bridal blade,
Nor the flint in the lover’s mauling.
Man of my flesh, the jawbone riven,
Know now the flesh’s lock and vice,
And the cage for the scythe-eyed raver.
Know, O my bone, the jointed lever,
Fear not the screws that turn the voice,
And the face to the driven lover.
All all and all the dry worlds couple,
Ghost with her ghost, contagious man
With the womb of his shapeless people.
All that shapes from the caul and suckle,
Stroke of mechanical flesh on mine,
Square in these worlds the mortal circle.
Flower, flower the people’s fusion,
O light in zenith, the coupled bud,
And the flame in the flesh’s vision.
Out of the sea, the drive of oil,
Socket and grave, the brassy blood,
Flower, flower, all all and all.
Our rooster’s name is Ivan.
He rules the world.
He stands on a bucket to assist
the sun in its path
through the sky. He
will not be attending
the funeral, for God
has said to Ivan, You
will never be sick
or senile. I’ll
kill you with lightning
or let you drown. Or
I’ll simply send
an eagle down
to fetch you when you’re done.
So Ivan stands on a bucket
and looks around:
cornflakes in their bowls.
The statues of their fascists.
The insane division of their cells.
of their bibles.Their
homely combs— and,
today, absurdly, their
crisp black clothes.
But Ivan keeps his thoughts
to himself, and crows.
The Botticellian Trees
–William Carlos Williams
The alphabet of the trees is fading in the song of the leaves the crossing bars of thin letters that spelled winter and the cold have been illumined with pointed green by the rain and sun— The strict simple principles of straight branches are being modified by pinched-out ifs of color, devout conditions the smiles of love— .............. until the stript sentences move as a woman’s limbs under cloth and praise from secrecy quick with desire love’s ascendancy in summer— In summer the song sings itself above the muffled words—
ZwijgenI slept before a wall of books and theycalmed everything in the room, eventheir contents, even me, wokenby the cold and thrill, and stillthey said, like the Dutch verb for fallingsilent that English has no accommodation forin the attics and rafters of its intimacies.