tiny poems by Grant Hackett
sunset. everything to be done will
be done over. crises caressed. fear
of the straight path.
***
autumn. burn windows and die with
the rose. time of drowning. last
life long chance.
butterflies are mating. tortures go on. metamorphosis
at the crossroads has killed peace. streets walk with their heads
held low. the floor of the ocean is no longer a dream.
fixed direction is the disease of roads. but whispers
swarm at the center of being. from artists with winged
hands there is much to learn. of wholeness and wild honey.
there is a small boat waiting. in the middle
of the page. where a poem begins. and goes
no further. serenity. a map of the heart completed.
beyond the past of where we were born. is the september of wanting
to bring someone there. by hands which cannot stop the little good
gone wrong. to a heart that dies slowly. our permanent home.
beneath the old house dim forests grow. black walnut
dreams drop weary shadows. windows flutter and break
against dawn. cold mist frees itself from river.
as his lover comes home he thinks about which story.
at the center of a drop of rain is there stillness. is there voice.
the answer is a wound. but so unimportant. and yet he trembles.
silence in a poem grows the way death roots. hand to mouth
to moon. with not one mystery less than needed. to guard what
least understands. with a heart open to all. and to none.
against the symmetry of coyote's penetrating eyes. we feed
mouthfuls of soul to our mirrors. expose the sex
of the rose to winter's raw light. read genesis as procreation.
like time spent in front of a silent piano. i have shown you
to no one. taste of self. i walk on our skin. without letters to trace
the space between us. skin cold as the flesh of shadow.
rain falling through old soles. the empty sees into the
empty. and we've come home again. the shallow of night pulls
off our clothes. under the rusted tongues of bridges.
death invented man on a day without inspiration. ashes
slept on the edge of the knife. a broken tree bled vinegar
and salt. no one was left tearless. in a universe without tears.
these hands are like brothers. one weaker than the other.
one loved more. one wields the knife. the other cleans
a small church. we have great admiration for their faith.
a tree of singular stature towers above above
an unpitying field. where a boy begins to know.
love wears the mask worn by the one who shapes silence.
a divided window dissects the sky. cemetery
plots. canceled mind. nothing falls to earth without
emitting light. dark voice. bruised eyes.
one by one by one by one. men pass buckets.
the hand counts its fingers. the ocean inventories sand.
nights leave without a dream. suns reappear.
a fist of clouds burst the heart. everything
in wind became theft. everywhere was music but silent.
creation of the one who was never found. and now there is autumn.
kneels to drink. drink your face from the wind.
those waters where absence is kept. deserves the dust
and ashes of your bed. whose night is full of holes.
used by pain for joy. by stone and salt for
polish. preferred food of fire. without taking a
backward step. or losing the power to leave one undone.
what swims ashore. and what is driven aground.
innocence. balance. the morning star. rainbows
above the wearied dead should not end in gold. tears.
some learn to fear the garden. where the rose
was a false flower. messengers enter and leave without
a trace. and the orchid knows in its heart it will be injured.
seedling of an exhausted species, whose language can i speak.
word is wind. and sky, windless.
leaves give tongue until their skin burns green.
on the first day of life. rain stands alone in the field. and
there is no place that is not someone else. on the first day
of death. the moon begins counting its delicate birds.