The river replaces, the willow drags
a horseless rider caparisoned in red
glides over the gravestones.
Velvet is the integument I’d hope for for night.
Our doors are unlonelied
in the most diaristic indulgence, Death comes unexpectedly
and so you sure better
knock, and in a magnitude of scales.
The most full-flooded four-color process awaits
there when I have time “for myself”
and cannot render it.
I had to guess “this was happening” said
one self to the other
who self same said as the original broke
through the dream hole of the second,
and hurled its relapse into a momentary
aquaintance who ground significance with a tired pestle
until my sleepy lover woke. I had to shade the place
just so. Heaven it’s heaven said it’s heaven
pure heaven the self hands heaven’s print-out
across a warm booth to another:
Heaven: Example
The heaven is without description.
Put them in one and the old will rage in a canoe.
Heaven was splashes of color
casually tossed from ecstacy to mania
so seeing had to become habitual,
seeing was certain films we could not look at,
films of commingstance. Might as well
bury me ’neath the blurry white oleander
crowding the pear tree near the family house
in its unassailable wedlock: personlock: what
alchemy of emotions
to accompany speech
and bit o’ pain.
A grave is goodbye last ditch so long see you again, adieu.
Always within earshot, actuality becomes you.
We needed the rain.
Indoors I worked like the crow, the phone rang.
I worked at it,
and the whole time I could hear you,
you didn’t have to scream.
Here is a dark suit and tie.
Appearance illumines.
Please write to me on a bed of ease.
Appearance forgets it like an egotist.
Fathom thee.
copyright Gillian Conoley, previous published in Jacket
Robin Reagler 