White Russians
I edge my foot out to the night
And, as he falls draping drunk against me,
I remove my fists from pockets
To strike him, to make him quit,
Forming the shape of a star.
Look through this wound.
There's the lining of his cheek,
Left with tonight's milk and what else.
The line of cups follow me home.
They make me live in half circles.
Boone's Crossing
There is rock, and here is rock
With no stems at the seams.
A forest hidden in fruit,
My branches to the lanes.
Median.
There is rock, and here is rock
That faintly holds the root
Of this cedar pole.
The city vacates my wiring,
Sprouting past the borderland.
Carbon by Carbon
Shrouding the morning in fine night,
The stomach of smoke rises yet above the block
With no remaining feasts of flame.
I survey the ruins as though they are my own,
For all the names collected and written except one
Have been gently claimed.
Before me, shallow on the bed of ash
A man of bones lies down open-mouthed,
Demanding respect while the hour's fresh.
Still, with flesh and fossil aligned,
Tell me silent friend, when does one
Begin the hunt for coal resting in rubble?
Free of Duty
My vealers muddle the call of vespers with their bells,
Surrounding me in rings as fingers pointing to blame.
And I have a while before I begin again.
Each day breaks imperfect and unstill, the sun splintered
Across the most tuneful larks, who hold their figures on frost.
And I have till darkness before I find the will.
The lichen latch to the night ground in the ravine
Where offerings, free of duty, fall from clouds of snow.
And I have this distance to travel before I turn around.
Aaron Koppel
