Iseult said always to her end day:
I used to be in love.
Ill  fated love favorite of Celts
I in love:
I          
used love        
to be
I.

Wait long
enough
by a golden hair
unaccountably found
It is un-love
to be in situ.
O tie I deus
un-divine.

Misunderstanding rampant
Purpose full of miscommunicate
Black sail white sail—what matter,
Breton wife, if I love you
not? Have we not
both benefited?
To be in love
is to be used.

Fie on life want
Fell he on knife
Late she
came.
Die indeed so
lone I be
‘til die I done
too soon.

Who needs stars in this dumpster carpet
tableaux? Felt hat felt hat felt, it’s
like one, all head-bang. It’s
hand-woven by the women this carpet
for standing. It’s woven in clashing colors
of cotton fabric——orange/blue/
red. A damper, a mat that sucks
vibration, cuts off, mutes before
it reaches the feet but those feet
have got that carpet licked.
They don’t tell——the shudders travel
a rhythm and a tempo lined and rutted
like a no man’s land.
He’s laying down the groove lifting
and stamping like he’s never done it
before, like it’s all he’s ever done.

Why didn’t those women weave birds?
Just lines and colors——cerulean and taupe.
Why, when we weave, do we weave rugs?
A melody——that’s what.
Something more than rows, more than pattern.
Like melting a box of crayons together.
First: dump them out on the ground.
Then: Unwrap each one——aubergine,
tourmaline. Then mount them against
each other, like a fire pile
or a tepee. On the sidewalk.
In full sun. By dusk a puddle of hues.
A hunk of all-at-onceness.

Tuning——Getting closer but still
with waver, he writes, too. On
notation paper.
Cruising true-believer. Blazing
ukulele. Classic frets. Pulse

blue light blue night lighthouse.
We’re talking about the buzz
of radiator in the corner. Heat
and buzz and concentric ripples
and obstacles. Meet obstacles——
The bay horizon turned on
its side makes an elegant —Y—
a wine glass full of cliff-
covered pine.
The old port is swarming——storm it.
The docks, be-broken planks ramshackle stack
ships throw out their hempen ropes and miss.
A collision can’t be avoided for long.

Firestorm over sea rocks——_
phreatic spine in the distance,
might overshoot the upturned mouth
of the sky and spill out
like paint in water, run back
down its disked ladder
in rivulets over the ocean canyon——
where sea pours by tens of tons,
a pendulum.

It might be the face of Jupiter,
its gaseous hues inventing
like fogblood.
One can mistake a still pocket
for land, another for sky
if it’s a brown one
proximal to gray.

Water rarely makes
chords and there are no
characteristic anomalies
of sound. One
must be guided.
One can’t be trusted
with toxic heavy metals
that could deaden
the sepia-toned grottoes. 

The spin upon descent
as the eye tours the virgin.
From below she is featureless,
a monolith, middle C
among the black keys, her breast
reaching to counsel     
the adolescent birch.
Not long now.