Raphael Bristle

[jeff harrison]

who are they, whose feathers, shed
into that pond your nods couldn't place
surface as ourselves,


                             our meat what snows
down, the gaps sprout water, who, naming
each other light, toad that body in sport
which dies in earnest,


                               backswirls without prints
rippling what belly, blues our working with ink
for easy relocation, this won't slow up our games:
what's material is after our belly, naming is matter,
but words, even when written, are not matter...


in the churchyard,
                         deaths, coiled into the yellow body,
shifted their stones aside, the roots, un-prints, wept
eyes hammered with the water, shield eyes, and note
the shapes of everyone as patched,


                                           dream snow rope mildly
as, in worn fairytales, faces, even the ruddy, wait
history shining through the / calling cards fell in a flurry
and here I am, it's of the physical that I talk


stop & see:
                 your hand is treeless, but there's a tree on
the lawn and, barring well-worn fairytales, not a single
hand waves from between the grasses,


though any length signifies a kneel, though the most
stationary & taciturn is surprised as an uncurled rain
though, quoting the Bard, "all surprises should be
filthy with dust,"
                           we word,


we steps,


                we imagine up bones, we mass vocabulary
we, well, me, ask, who are they, whose feathers, shed
into that pond your nods couldn't place


                                       surface as ourselves
the gaps' water a faded picture vessel, there hand,
zero begin, feathers' reader, rustle that... cash...
"Raphael Bristle," luxury bones, fell papers, cherry waters


                  (Cherry Waters - whatever became of her?),
shall we
snap hard narrows then?  we, rippling it all, stand beneath
to receive the meat that don't grow trees, we, well, me,
have a few mingles left still



		
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