THE DRUM

for Anselm Hollo

First resting
then resisting
a little is
is a little
spark for the cauldron
that lines our skull
so what if the good
days should strike us dumb?
Is the heart’s drum not more
lovely for the devastation of silence?
We form a white circle
of these word-whittled teeth
to spit for grief
into the seething pines
that still unhewn
know only drowning
of sparks
and slacking
of the drum
and reverse it
We pull our tongues
into taut red swathes
until the flaws of language
stand out pale and beaded
from a thick and bloody lawn
so to be lopped into sequins
and placed on the boughs
so the pines can shimmer
in their pricking resistance
and the drum too
can grow taut
across the cauldron
and noisily
all that
sober material will
spin and writhe
in the shimmering pines
that do shimmer harder
as the heart batters on

THE TONGUE

for Ben Estes

So taste
as day
arranges the red
and orange flowers
from tongue to tongue
like losing the cymbal’s
clang for all its glints
we crept behind the moon
which always insists on sleeping over
a belly for a mouth
an hour past the movie
we were still filming
the way food fills
in the cracks
between your teeth
or song
in sheets
against the windshield
no one believes
air is the enemy
so don’t be afraid
to breathe all this speech
someone already died to say
the moon is on the couch
so we climb onto the roof
and stick out our bellies
which slosh and go flowers
red and orange flowers
hairy and pink-stemmed
like champagne flutes
we always overuse
we do
nothing right
unless by tongue
or by cymbal
in the little time
left before sun drives
all the workers into work
all the workers into work