Shying away from the numen’s name,
Out lame to proclaim the bent nature of beauty.
Over backward, over easy, falling with the other angels inward.
Rosicrucian ecstasy but first
The maze, the threat, the cairns and concerns of non-existence.

Bloom now, just a day, a path, a way back to bed in the morning.
Dark soil, seeps at the base of harrowing flowers.
She said too much, too tightly wound the graphite and turquoise
In bronze wire shining as emblems, as sun, as forever.
Nothing forever is.

Grassy, fecund earth with all the number of us tracing figures,
Veins on as many leaves, on as many faces,
Crafted and obscure and not dead in life but still pulling
As at a rope of a deep need, call it a weed
And bend over and pull.

She says, “say my name” tumbling waters, floating white dress
As a cloud might say to the lake – call me, reflect me to myself
As I am passing, diminutive, one among many
And but a storm following to dimple an already crumbling sea.

We wayfarers are tackless, white as bone
But weathered out alone,
Red as devils, scratching the door,
Leaving the post that you owe money.
That cleave is to separate cling.
That that is that.
That rat is tatter, tattle,
Nothing but sticks floating in the flotsam of the flood.
Nothing but her hands reaching out to you.
Nothing, tell me again how you felt rubbing up against the door frame,
Looking out, as out to sea or in a dream, believing in me
Before the crack, the drop, the sink hole of names swirling
And gurgling as a multitude is of no reassurance,
No laughter in the crowd is enough to compensate us,
A banal thought anyway.

Not enough to discover a shock of turquoise in the pan of sand
Swirling for something heavy,
Her golden head laid to one side
Beyond question of ownership or pride.
She is still in pose as the ancient smudge.
Unable to save the land even with a great fire and all of our efforts.

Put your money on the table –
As good there as anywhere.
Put aside, look within – It doesn’t matter that cold feet and wind
Are as nettles and neuropathy as winding down our hands
On the bell line of rope or on the up pull of thistles
And the blisters and shovel handles and work to be done.
There is work to be done.
Isn’t that enough…
Laugh, laugh,
Check the back side of the statue for a butt hole.

By Rolf Stavig
6/25/2023