Poet

To your words I am glass.
Across the clear solid
their blazing power approaches.
Penetrate without shatter.
Verbal x-rays, a testament
to your vision, which must be solar.

The cadaver of a young swimmer
is how you say floating.
A whisper buried in ice
is how you say forever.
The coals of the sky
is how you say clouds.

I would like your ink stained
handprint left on my surface.
A smudged aperture to the chest
where you words are stored.
A visible meditation to verify
your existence from here.

In your own words
through the glass, this is me
when your sun comes through:
The cadaver of a young swimmer
in the coals of the sky
a whisper buried in ice.

DQ 4/27/07

While We Wait for Mae

Lava in a dress, culprit of brimstone,
everything beyond the tip of your
eyelash burns. Make your body shake
from the shoulders down in
sinusoidal liquid smoke. Shimmy.

Where does the sun set?
Not here.
We're not like
those who fear the slow
pressure cooking of your gaze.

Where does the sun set?
Not here. We're not crouching
behind a faux stage.
We do not crave
sleep, or vaudeville,

or the bodice of spring.
We look to the solstice
and wilder things
in the direction of the set.
Sexsette.

Where does the sun set?
Not here, not exactly.
We came upstairs to see
the dazzling tulips one last
time but got lost in your dress.

A thousand suns were
sewn in the rosewood
mold of a guitar.

EN/DQ 4/25/07
(a collaboration between Edward Nudelman and DQ)

Celeste

“I am haunted by Azure, Azure, Azure, Azure”
S. Mallarme

Serene splendor of the wind,
the scent of lavender is overwhelming

Slow machine of perpetual mantra,
the sea is overwhelming.

Silent dome of everness,
the sky is overwhelming.

There! in the azure…
a living poem floats among petals
of seaweed. It must be Ophelia.
No. It is someone else.

I have come face to face
with Venus’ shimmer
reflected on the ocean’s swell.
Her eyes are overwhelming.

DQ 04/15/07

Ars Poetica

“A poem should not mean, but be.”
Archibald MacLeish

The chime exhumes a single note.
It is your voice.

A nightingale sings in bird
speak. My ears squint, I sing.

Ghosts touch each other unaware.
Eyes and words do the same.

Every night dreams are sacrificed
to the sun. The moon is proof.

Two images collected in a puddle.
Mine above. Yours below
a pale shadow buried in mud.
In my eyes, a tinge I never saw before.

DQ 4/8/7

Nepenthe II

Eternity is the immortal
soul-kiss of your body
pressed upon my hand

aphrodisiac whisper
residue of rainbow, perfumed
hue between my fingers.

Tomorrow I’ll question whether
the scent is yours or mine,
forget the world for a moment or two.

Right now, there are chimes
and bells strung on this
tightrope that binds us

this fragrant silk web
pathway of angels
colored ripened rose.

DQ 04/5/07