for Kenneth Patchen

lay down in the smallness,
the grass that is his leg and wind and eyes,
lay down where he cups your ear like fur.
hear the ebony sound of the angel as she
scratches her wings to dust, the steeples bowing to
the maiden in her, the linen of her melodious apple thug,
the little scrap of humanity that clung to her harp.
sing like the miniscule wisp of yourself, blown solid
and fragrant in the liquid battle that fugues its fury
like a leaf in the wind, over and over tumbled and born,
but true each time it turns up like a dream of itself,
the map unfolded soft at the corners, the edges like the fingered
silk of the angel as she lifts herself lost from gravity’s dress,
lit and tiny, buoyant with effortless cinders and milk she
lifts her hands like men lifted temples to the lips of gods,
the face of entire kingdoms resting in the nape of her,
her tree that she dreamed to the middle of an ocean,
the flounder that spawned greenery and light, when she
lay down my arms went numb my hands

the particular part of a man that dies
from one step to the next, his small tip
of eternity trampled and stoned, the liquid
of him bartered into leather and coin and meat.
at the marketplace he will shine like plums and oranges,
like the sun that set in the seat of his leaving, like the little
twin of the angel that stole his top hat and made him dance
without any clothes. she whispered to him the swallow and
the magpie, the women pick the gems of fruit, but he could hear
only dusk and the cool whisper of his father and the place they set
for him in the mist. I looked back, I tried to see his falls and precious
stumbles, to look and see the precious hour when the angel got her
little scar and offered it, it was like a stem, so fresh, he slept with it
like a star

I wanted her to know that the tree meant
love between his fallen lips, that he was not
afraid to shed and gleam, that his fingers were the
hearts of oaks. he wanted it to be like he believed it was
until he became speckled and taut with fire. little did he know
his plumage rang and raged in the windows where people look
once their timber has been split and the meadow they traced
as a child is mushroomed and the bark they named is dusk.

down in the smallness they craft a flute that lifts
the bones of his daylight to song, that mends their rifts
with water. his walk was just a selfless walk.
little did he know he was a prayer.