Violin

What is a piano
but a
small
violin
played with somnolence
and
effort
or pizacatto
in a house
of noise

because
everything is glass
&will shine and break
and everything,
I mean everything,
is sequined
with pain

the tintinabulum
of our hopelessness then
blue in the water
blue in the
ache
or an amber pear
that comes down
to shape
and in it mnemosyne
sings
the lost
infusoria

violin small
breath
to
see and ache

in
the word
where
death is not
without
its answer

Summer

The white toys
of summer
that have named Paul Klee
little goat
who are you
little lamb
of you know who
we must whisper of faith
in the silence
of days!
the world is too small
we cannot save it
only look inside and
give hope away
and the tiny
ruins
of an expressionis's
heyday
that echoes inthe air
and in the soup
and in the
conical greenery
tiny people
with earthen sobs
hopping
down
into the hole
and refusing
to return
again
a world of primes
and terpsichorae's ashes
sun
mellinoma
come plait
our
hums
death is
our enemy
and death
its friend

Days

There are days when i can feel them, hammering in my blood, the positivist's with their levers, nailing together a little dream out of desire, a nihilism that founders at the edge of its own abyss,burning with need, with hopes for fame and pleasure. those are the hard days, when It appears there is no end, because I know for certain that in the material vision, there is absolutely no reason for anything to exist, no value to love, no intrinsic value to anything. It bothers me. Because I feel eternal somehow, I always have, especially when I'm in love. And the flowers burst into little bonnets of fever, expansive parachutes of rare blue silk, hanging in the air ,indebted to the airI can't say why this is important to me. but somehow, I have to know, not whether, but how we exist. And I know no one else can supply that knowledge for me, that those who profess materialism, have nothing to go on but their lack of experience of what death is, what God is. On the other hand the godly are often stunted in their reverence, little runts gorging themselves on abstinence and commandments

.
Yet there are saints who have lived between the fire and the absence.Who have lived the death which is life, the life which is death,I envy them, I do, not for the pain with which they aquitted themselves, but because they could lie down at night, breathing into the shadows and know that what they live is what they mean.