The Blue Book

Passing Temple

You lean down to smell an iceberg
and tell of the transience
of our most vivid experiences.

We evaporate, you say,
breathe ourselves out and away,
like perfume loosed at our shadow crossing
where, startled still by sweetness,
you built a temple inside my hearing,
an old place I can come to pray, to be
with the untranslatable heart:

Gesang ist Dasein

hear, in your pulse the drumroll
that has gone before
to come again:
dream-life born of spent,
aged things made anew
in the tremendous silence
between beats.

A blue song rebounds
in caves bored deep
beneath the mountain,
leading to dead-ends
and secret places alike
where a fool formed a clock
from forgotten trash,
a piece of great and objectless longing
lying in wait
for the next big shift to strike
the rubbish in a rhythm unknown,
as if we were a single beat
flung into brightness.


Barfuß Am Klavier

Sonnets to Orpheus


New Ancient Strings