People talk about flowers
all the time just like
they talk about nuns
and pianos but hardly
anyone can explain exactly
what they are for
how exactly they work
do they choose to go
into the cloister
and become a certain
hue the sun can pass
through attracting notes
that come from a wire
struck by a wooden hammer
or did they hear
a voice once or for many
years that said if you
focus all your love
on this single blade
that doesn’t
feel anything something
will fly by and touch
your keys with powder
on its wings and make
music only you were
destined to hear
in the meadow when
you hear it stay there
and wait your calyx
will open it’s true
when it does no
matter what they say
there will still be time
for just a little while
keep that music
for yourself

I take my book of spells
that don’t work

and my silent megaphone
outside at lunchtime

and scream at the sky,
I am leaving

my job as assistant
caretaker of everything

that will only matter
after it has been approved

by the standing committee
of associate ghouls

that never meets,
their silent laughter

around a circular table
wanders into the chapel

then makes the endless
fountain of bylaws

bend while the statue
of the founder watches,

we all know he will rise
one day and meet us

where we are
to destroy us,

when I leave I will take
all the empty manila folders

that held twilight’s forbidden thoughts
and this crying bowl

someone else’s mentor
handed to me the day

I crossed the cobalt
oblivion river,

I will burn my parchment
outside the new recreation facility

then go live
with my green ache

on a very low hill that does not
look down on anyone.

lots of poets
speak to the dead
or so they say
but who dies
on purpose
so she can speak
to the living
who gives
one last breath
back to the world
then stays
some time longer
to speak in the ear
of one who loved her
or maybe just us
her recorders
I don’t know
whether ghosts feel
that’s a subject
for the mystic
I am not
I want to know
what is past feeling
only for myself
a silver taste
appears in my mouth
so I drift away
to the pages
the death poems
I join them again
she spoke
one last time
into our ears
then without sentiment
went elsewhere