ISSUE  1   2   3   4   SUBMIT

THIS IS THE HOUSE


Thomas Meyer

Coins in an old man’s sack
worth their weight.
Someone swings back his bat
to hit us home.
What moves this universe?
Love. Thick pink flowers
under glass frost a cake.
Set on these scales a grain
and a star. Do you hear the bird?
A silver thread under the work.
Sun lights on the top of an oak.
Shortly before noon.
A walk by the river.
Our hope remains in secrets.
Inexplicable. Ineffable. Inviolate.
Unspoken prayers. Leaves move.
And make no sound. Sun
behind cloud.
The door to the house opens.
All this happens when the sun rises.
These are difficult matters and require maps.
A book lies open to the right page.
Happy afternoons on the lawn.
I am love.
I can’t explain what I said.
I grieve for words.
My face turns to water.
A river of reflections.
Apollo in the shower
lathered up
rinses his long blond hair.
Something simple.
Someone knocks.
A bird hesitates at the window
and disappears
on a secret mission.
Cold wind. A red car
speeds by
under budding trees.
Gray sea.
Darkness grows
in the room.
Hollywood love.
Unseen he enters this room.
The center of my mind.
A grammatical weakness.
Besides their eyes, quick ears
not those sluggish ones
bored with narration. Dead birds
and purple flowers hang
on these words and arms.
A hundred million miles to love.
A room inside a camera.
God’s eyelid. Here they worship
waterfalls, and the sun no more.
Nothing to be afraid of.
Laughter. Motorcycles.
Beaches.
Hundreds of times. Seen down the hall.
Xeroxes. Not mirrors. Someone dreams
and makes his way through the city
of his skin to sleep the rest of his life.
His bones flowed from him like milk.
Speaking fogs the mirror.
I see myself naked and walking in the woods.
Do you see me naked and walking in the woods?
You will remember nothing that has happened.
You have come a long ways.
Our American astronaut
waves to us on TV.
Above the blue horizon.
Moon comes out.
Yellow town seen from
a floating car Sunday
afternoon. She gave me
evergreen.
Reality kick.
A poison we work through
day by day. Into time.
Summer garden. Single rose
climbing through the nine
doors this world
opens.
A movie theater’s darkness. Simple
desire. Things take care of themselves.
Blood fills then empties.
I don’t want inside your life.
Your clothes. Your skin.
She waited. But they didn’t come.
Night. Birds roost in tall trees.
Someone in the top bedroom
draws the drapes. The sound
of children on the lawn
soaks further into the grass.
Rose before her. Garden
under sunlight. A radio plays inside.
Cloud covers the sun.
Happy days. See-through bee’s wing.
The easy distances between the flowers
fill my mouth with silence.
Someone turns the music up.
A reflection floats in a blue cup of coffee.
A clear blue sky. Roads maps make.
A dry leaf blows into the room.
Settles on the rug.
After hours of conversation
they return home. Drive away in cars.
Flashlight. Goldfish swim in a bowl
on a tray in a window. An open window.
Slight breeze. Curtains. A slight movement.
A boy holds out
a handful of mud
and laughs.
Music behind me.
Water. Rocks. Tide surrounds.
The car moves toward heat.
Warm nights. The turnpike
goes to greener lands
from bluer.
Someone called Rose.
Afternoon outside as though indoors.
Whatever happened.
Whoever came here.
The garden stretches out.
The shade grows.
Examine
the Japanese flowers
closely.
See the wire supports?
Eye’s distinction. Sight’s sense.
What’s seen?
Bathroom door opens a crack.
She stands top of the stairs
and wears a white dress
no one would think of wearing.
A symphony. Every red shoe.
The film goes on.
Walk out of an eye.
By the river. One bank. Then.
Another. Saturday. An afternoon.
A guess. Green grass. Under water.
Ah! Tacos. He said.
Like he had my number.
Walk through the parking lot.
Through the snow.
And expect to meet.
Not even. Oneself.
April. Out of season. Islands
in the summer. Tan realities.
Upset afternoon with a table cloth.
Running water’s sound.
Too bad about the rain.
It comes down. It’s wet.
Does that solve the problem?
Or make another?
Pines grow green. The rest
look dead. Gray. Or just dry.
Desire goes on.
Pipe tobacco. Imaginary
strawberries.
Everything changes. Into cellophane.
Everything changes into light.
Wolves. Cigarettes. Dreams.
His reflection in.
A cup of.
Black. Coffee.
Happy river. Ripe fruit
an orchard. Cow fills the pail.
Set down upon a checkered
table cloth. They open
the car door and walk
into the woods. Under Trees.
Shade. Hot sun.
Cold water.
Alone in a bus.
Except for its driver.
Some go to the city
for pleasure. Some for profit.
Neither of us are headed
that way. Walk to where
woods end. Each turn unfolds.
Maybe a lake beyond that hill.
Room after room. Cigarette
after cigarette. Milk
fills the pitcher as I sleep.
Silent white sheets
the glass.
I park the car and follow
into the woods. Maps
in the glove compartment
gone.
Who waits or comes to visit?
This means doors.
She sat by a window and saw
cars. I spoke the language with great
difficulty. The blue stone
stays blue in a jar
under the steps.
The fish are real
and swim in water
the color of water.
Walls to hang pictures on.
A man. A rope around
his foot or head.
Speed and the wind.
Postcard. She wore
a white uniform and stood
at the door
when I opened it.
When I opened it.
Draw on the past. Turn off
the music and on the radio.
Take pictures. Phone off hook.
Under covers. After while
stop believing in any of it.
Glass of ice water. Change
the station. Unlock the door.
Outside blossom or ice
covers dry branches.
The car never returned.
Fields and trees bare.
He moves his hands
inside his pockets. “I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be.”
In what garden did he walk the other day
or afternoon? Snow. Snow.
Winter. Spring. Flowers bloom
in between. Dead bird. Never sang.
Too early hatched.
Abandoned houses. Small town.
Waits for whatever tracks
a car makes.
Why is an apple like a clock?
In the morning there is bread.
Number of seeds memorized.
When he cuts the fruit no surprise.
How far from where pears fall
lie rocks? Several things unclear.
We arrive at sundown. No one
at the table.
Snow fall. Apples
all in a bowl and red.
These reasons
for the colors are
because. He draws
pictures of pencils.
And says his name
three different ways.
Intricate laces. Cat’s
cradle. Branches. Ice and
trees. Music. Gray light.
“Something happened
to me yesterday.”
That blue we all love. Who
am I to name names
in a poem of mine?
John.
Water runs down the ally confused.
Not monsoon but soon enough.
Was sense once just
the way things sounded?
Pronouns sweet as
radios on a hot night.
I turn in the field to see
who comes after me.
Walk through snow.
Light. Sun. Glare.
Yet forever surprised
by a dark figure. A woman
most always.
Helen.
Birds intrude. Hot water pipes
sing. A shaking in the branches.
Lovely green. Garcia-Lorca
in New York. A Gnostic
parable. Ivory bones. Raspberry blood.
Door. Rock. Horse. Lion.
Bare back across a beach.
Cup of coffee. Orange peel
left on the heater
perfumes the room.
Valentine dances.
At Alexandria saints
drowned in the sea. Took
flight to heaven in flames.
Saint Anthony (enough of Lombardy)
withdrew to go to God in calm repose.
His body glories daily.
Miraculously.
Day’s whole story.
Its measure.
Felt. Made shape.
Yesterday’s? Gone.
This one’s the way
it goes.
Snow outside. White fields.
Open the door. In the eyes.
Walk out. Mark a clean slate.
Silent color.
House That Jack Built.
Perfect Hebrew poem. Everything names.
No pronouns left.
The garden’s pun
isn’t the flower it seems.
Return to talk. Limit reached.
Never crossed. But comes
into day. Answers.
Questions. Which which?
Red late January sun.
Wet footprint. Bath mat a map.
Stretches out. A naked continent.
Open window. Cold air.
Earth’s picture. Ocean also.
Eliza on the ice. Uncertain.
Yet confident.
Lamb on an altar. Pain.
Charred. Asleep in new skin.
In a pasture. Happy
he who handles fire.
Twice happy he whom
fire handles.
Hurt voluptuous grace. He screams.
Wanders naked room to room.
Who knocks? The door?
Something new.
Every day’s image
places the eye.
Collects what happens
and makes a girl
who sits among roses. Birds
fly from her mouth.
Light in her hair. On her
hands.
Snow. Flakes fall.
Through branches. Into a dream.
The sun.
Gingerbread boar with a raspberry snout.
Long cap. Red boots. The boy
climbs a picket fence. Once
upon a princess. A dragon and
the day’s direction. Love.
What creates day?
A cup of black coffee.
Silence at light’s edge.
The river last night.
Mud stuck to shoes.
The tree’s shape leans into
the sun. Who owns the moon?
The sky? The days?
These hours come then go.
Wind holds
clouds in place
above a mountain.
A branch falls across the van.
Turns me into sincerity.
Aware of where he went.
It the music he followed.
Mouth moves. Makes sound.
Throat opens. Lips part.
There goes a blue car.
Bizet’s Pearl Fishers play
on a radio. A red
wheelbarrow casts
metaphysical doubts.
A boy kicks a ball.
The sun falls
in a rearview mirror.
A man with amber loins
Ezechiel saw.
The train pulls out.
But we can’t hear it whistle.
An orange rests in a silver bowl.
As Platonic as it gets.
Across the road
a tree fell.
Walk past cornfields.
No moon. Clear sky.
Warm air. Kabbala.
A train passes. Stars
order
love’s
numbers.
Apparently us.
Measure.
Of all this.
Nothing but
sun
above trees.
Horus sucks his
thumb.
They gather the dark in baskets
the livelong day.
Maple leaf. Angel’s wing.
Feather.
This book’s leaves
fall from trees.
Not place, but position.
We are the stars. And sky.
There numbers cease.
What with. When. Who. Where.
Spread out. The poem.
Contour. Pindar.
From behind.
Things where they are.
Evident truth.
Whoever receives
this love of limbs
remembers.
The body’s wonder.
Pacific nation
refers to ocean.
Clear blue circle.
Washes up on a coast.
Pax? Or flux? The where.
Changes? Is love only?
Has it other?
Come into my skin.
The stuff says. I am where.
All geography. Vacancy calls.
Other stands outside. Not in.
We are as finely wrought
as we perceive.
Even in Hades
Patroklos found
an image of
the Achilles he loved.
When morning comes
to trees the loved one’s
arm waves wild in the wood.
God speaks on the radio.
Broken glass. Colored spots. Eyes.
Thoughts. Are there things
we cannot say?
Wolves run our holy place.
Here histories begin.
Who can count beyond ten?
Leaves. Elves.
Boundary stones.
Map. Route.
Hermes. Grain. Loaves.
Olives. Dried fruit.
Water in jugs. The city lives on trade.
The sea brings goods.
Set sail.
Thicket. A ram.
Caught.
Abraham.
And Isaac.
A concern for shape, not form.
Precious gem. The body. Spirit’s home.
This mystery comes to stay, sets up camp.
And walks our streets. Our veins.
The great work. A devotion
unto itself.
Salty inlet. Wild celery.
Dead Semele stands beside her son.
He steps out of the water
into the air.
Bright wet.
Fruited branch. Flowers cover the ground.
The sky above what grows.
Sea weds land. And fish weds tree.
Leaves and cattle run down to the water.
Sacred geometries
move beneath robes.
Flowers. Feast. New wine.
God is his people.
His temple their flesh.
The boys sing in the market.
Music’s masters. Warships.
A festival. Set sail for Salamis.
Hermes. Apollo. Orpheus.
Their sea the wine flowers float upon.
Knives slice the sun.
Honey. Sunlit. Falling. Demeter’s hair.
What sea bears her ships?
Or olives? Oil for her lamps?
Not gold but blue set in silver.
Capture the market.
Coal. Hard. Dreams. Hermes.
Not only peaches, but pears.
Come from the tomb.
Stand naked before him.
One thousand years.
Twice born. Rise from the water.
Settle by the sea. Build ships.
Cross the Euphrates. Cut cedar.
Build ships. Cattle driver. Dream bringer.
Watcher by night.
Ten thousand things.
Kingdom come.
Flesh’s mother. Matter’s father.
From veil to crown
say up for down, left for right.
Sunlit air. Lapis. Crystal.
Light’s vessel.
Mother binds her child.
Locks him in the dark hollow of her heart.
Bees and men rest together in the green.
Together in
a stone’s song.
A bull built Solomon’s temple.
Where the moon plows the measure.
They worked naked. Without sandals.
This gold dwelling of all possible things.
The handiwork of men.
None lie alone. Nor silence their wants.
Nor wish in vain. Yet sorrow
receives this soul at rest.
Ours and ours alone.
Stars shower the sky.
Fish and crows find their own
young fairest.
The courage of these pastures
lives in its dark flowers.
He draws a sword
coated in honey
gathered by bees
looking for light.
Dance naked
before the imagination
of God.
Blood’s dream. Pure and shed.
Seven cups fill and overflow.
Murder or the rose’s perfected red.
Light flowers in vision’s garden.
A healing plant. Sun’s scent.
Alchemical seed.
Beautiful child
with wings. Fly from
your mother’s house.
Mighty warrior in his chariot
discovers Alaska.
Ice. Clawed tides.
He holds the Grail.
Fire and love.
Moon of his own sun.
A wand passes through the air.
An animal in the moon.
A king upon his throne.
Mercy lights that air.
Perfumes await his body.
Sandals his feet.
After the bath.
The tower. Cruel and powerful.
An older woman. Understanding.
Everything comes up cups.
Sun. Sea. Fish.
Leap the knowing dark.
Into what receives.
See without eyes.
Silence makes light light. Air air.
Moon in Capricorn. Dominion. Crown.
Some day.
An impression of all there is
passes through this opening.
An open door the mirror. Explained thing. Closeness.
Birds are the sure truth of sky.
We come to rest.
The pool still. The water silence.
The reflection reflection.
Work. Unknown ways.
Make. Things to hold.
Life lived in the seen.
Dream comes by night
on moon’s wings.
Footsteps.
Naked and strong.
What joins. Moves from
itself through itself to itself.
Eyes, heart, nerves.
The cup.
Hand to face. What man
makes to dwell in.
Makes love to.
To hold. Makes man
the city. Where
he lives.
Things find their way by heat. Through it.
By light. Touch and feel. Or.
Here are directions. To find. Your way. Here.
It’s easy to tell trees from trees.
Rocks from rocks.
But difficult rocks
from trees.
Whatever we do
is god’s will.
Dead thing with wings in my path.
A stone. The third. Yellow wings.
A horse. In between. Black. Plastic.
Give way to the sun. Give way
to keep it’s going. Ear’s orbit.
Keep to the sun. Keep to the way.
Keep to the poem.
He didn’t want shoes on. Today. Or a shirt.
Are dreams any truer when the dreamer dreams naked?
Time. The only thing holding day together.
Dream. Does it gather in day?
Where days are made, and days unmade may be
the same place. What sings? Who listens?
How tender the music made. Like milk
or railways. Easy trains cross
vast spaces timetabled. When?
Which track. Dances where?
Thinks what? First held.
The things that are the things that are
are the metaphysics of it. Held in attention’s palm.
Telltale fortune. Crossroads.
Few and far. Tender, green. Full blown.
How to open it? Nearness. Things’ energy.
What to find? Track? Unexplained.
Summer asks time to stop.
Dry land, yellow grasses, and green.
Things we see.
Or the electric voice. Having means
but no end, is that fair? Or foul?
Common terms, tricky purposes. Mind’s essential wandering.
Experience. In turns out.
The world’s botched form tempers
then decorates natural affection.
To yield to what’s common, less causal, more effective.
Take the field of vision into
the lawn of something that happens.
The singing begun, the singing done.
Simply. It is.
What ways from here are there?
An only direction. All points. Roads run.
Well formed air made from confusion?
Mapless, untraveled places. Near the water.
Near a weathered sign. Near the roadside.
Near knowing. Going is the only good.
Wet dirt. Beamless mud vault.
Silent dark. Draws the flow.
A long way from home. Hearth.
Kith but not kin.
Vine whose shape is the trunk it clings.
What we know is gone and said.
Dreams water the brain. Wash it out to sea.
Raft. Shore.
The world beyond within your palm.
Readiness. Equality’s mean.
The journey begins at asking.
Telling makes the tongue a thumb.
This river is nothing more than footsteps.
Going keeps the map on the table.
That’s how it and we get where.
Unseen life shakes out what works.
Good in other words.
The heart is nothing more than grammar.
What about the mind can’t find its way out?
What we suppose. Dead pauses.
When and how long are those?
The window reflects the room.
Who can, understands time.
The hive of heaven
worked out from fragments.
Replaceable, minimal. Focused.
Formality confines the flow.
The door opens and a quiet passing
fills our calendars with days to come.
Sun stand still in this hollow.
Make a night without structure,
form, nor complexion.
Scarlatti, play Shakti a pavane.
Light breaks the cave walls.
In the mind’s black parts sing.
Tempting order. An elaborate whole.
Sure green bud brought out of simple ice.
Virtual grace. Natural justice.
Awkward tides loose branches gather upon.
Odd made even and divine.
Natural primes begin close to their ends.
Immediate outcome.
Our vital pair Heva and Adam
before their fall.
The glory. He who moves
a totality
through this universe.
Penetrated and splendid,
more here, less there.
Whose architecture remains
the cave undone.
Piecemeal, patches, notes. Parings. A parable.
Imagine something meaning forever.
Always and now.
A prayer of going,
not separation.
The neural darkness.
How much further much longer much more?