Poetry

Raskolnikov hasn’t slept. For days. In his brain, something like white.
A wave stopped in mid-leap. Thick, slow, white. Or maybe it’s brain.
Brain in his brain. Old woman’s brain on the filthy floor of his brain.

A nail gun fires into wooden scaffolding up the hill—
the skeleton of a roof unfolding above the trees.
Rat tat tat. Bunk bunk bunk. There is music,

Last of the Romany race,
Haply a king and queen,
Meal it with sorry grace
On the highway border of green.

This land is heavy with sleeping generations
Of young forefathers who thrust back the hills
And cleared their pastures of blackberry blossoms, planting

Deep roll the breakers where we run
  Along the sands,
And up the blue deep rolls the sun
  From sunny lands.

Dusky and strong,
You lift high your branches,
Mighty magnolia;

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

Beloved, practice patience with this tongue,
Restricted to a single argument.
O, suffer that the voice has left unsung

Children’s voices in the orchard
Between the blossom- and the fruit-time:
Golden head, crimson head,