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Category archive for: G.C. Waldrep

Wildwood

 The lights come on in the valley below.

When did you last believe shutters were for shutting?

       A domestic penance:

    these accoutrements, spall and mixed

design breaking like ribbons of speech

              on ribbons of water.

   Dialect is the truest gift,

self speaking self

         the way the trees did,

   For we are one yet we are many

                 and we rise.

  There was a time I could not hear

   because my ears were stopped with pure honey.

           I was standing still.

At what point do thieves cease to steal

   our stories, our painted shadows?

              —Proverb and joke.

   Carefully I copy the image

         of empire’s currency,

abstraction of the leader, abstraction from the mode:

           thus sex as artifact.

   Lilith, take heart.

         I have not let anyone in.

  Scientists now project the pollen count

           millennia into the past—

If I refuse to remove my hand from the guiding thread

   it is only because I have not yet pledged

   allegiance to foreskin, shent villa,

       sweet crystal psalm.

from DisclamorFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2007
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Cloud of Witness

Day’s cage again and this time I try for a breeze,

I open a window to the east and a window to the west and I think

that this is something like the holly that lifts its blood-

fruit bright to the morning sun, to the afternoon sun,

to the evening breeze though with less fervor,

and I think the phone will ring. It always has. It is not ashamed of this,

its function, like the hollyberries in their naked plenty

which bob and weave, the bees which,

seeking their gilded herm, their bone-skep pene-

trate and stop at one single point, as light in certain media.

I crave the aftersilence. Angry buzz as night falls:

that artificial sun, a carnegie of lovers. I had rather been weeping.

It is beautiful. It is almost fearfully beautiful.

It is most fearsomely beautiful. I am still thinking, I am still waiting

for the phone to ring. The holly plays host to its spare nation.

If I believed you what would change. Tell me.

from DisclamorFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2007
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.