In The Shade of a Cypress
Bees crawl on the sheep’s ears,
And later at the hidden hive,
Possessed by the need to tell,
Dance in the frenzy of St Vitus
Directions, landmarks, aerial paths.
The wind in the olive speaks
Something timeless
And its breath is scented with lavender
And rain-soaked earth.
Underground roots and fungi
Tell the flowers of a coming storm
And in the bamboo a blackbird
Calls attention to his red chevrons.

Against all custom
My solitary chair in the garden
Has a mate, vacant
At the moment,
Except
For the aura of worry,
Eyes floating under furrows,
Tight at the sides and fixed
On a phantasm
A thousand yards distant.
You have heard about Mictlan,
The Aztec realm of the dead,
In the ninth hell,
Reached after a journey of four years
And the crossing of many rivers,
On whose shores ferrymen wait
Patiently
Then shove off with their poles of piñon,
A file of souls
In each canoe.
Mictlan is beyond
Our ken, beyond
Smuggled messages
Or signal fires
Or sentences
Tapped on an improvised
Drum.
After four years
As counted by the surface world,
Prayers cease,
The last offering cools on the altar
And the priest walks to his college.
You have heard all this,
Wondered
When the topsails
Of the barque bearing
An unnamable cargo
Will erupt on the horizon
Flying God knows what pennant.

I feel the cold easily,
At the slightest breeze.
I am puny and bewildered,
My arsenal outmoded,
Muskets and uncertain powder.
But I have a once-upon-a-time:

At fifteen, schoolgirl with
Eyes
Hooded,
Full of hurt,
Peering from a shipwreck
And asking
Sadly
What next?

At twenty-one
Married,
A white peacock
And hysteria
Where once stood your husband
And your feelings.
I loved you for the way
Your downcast eyes
Dwelt on
Your wringing hands.

At twenty-two
Modigliani looped your soul
In a few lines,
And I never tired of
The succinct capture.

At twenty-five
I fell in love with
Your cubist nose.
Then ended the youth you likened
To a Sunday prayer.
In your thirties
Sorrow weighed
Like an innocent son
On your brow
And a prince with his talk of nunneries
Locked you in a stairless tower,
Your face in the sole window
Chasing the morning star
Above sighing men.

Death and his henchmen
March beneath a cloudless sky,
Youths in rags of slaughter
Dance as best they can
And the old lie about for collection.
Your eyes are reluctant to rise
To the ruined school,
Yet I sent you love letters
And the strength of your words
Strangled death.

In your fifties jewelers
Incised you on azure cameos.
Rivals thronged you
And blushed unable to cap your wit.
They eagerly read your poems
For a hidden reference.