I say, A late sky flagged with jade; ice on the pear blossoms.
I say, A thrush of cinnabar in the lily's throat.
Behind each assertion, each gambit, I could place a question
   mark.

Behind each question, a residue of longing, half-assuaged,
An argument of brine-edged light the moon, your stand-in,
   doles out,
Grain by grain. Behind each question, a hook blackened with
   rust.

Begin with a clay bank, a chill wind's insufflation.
Begin with thumbflint, a fever, some sticks to fire the kiln.
Are words but an entrance? Words are but an entrance.






Dream Landscape with the Old Brickyard Road Creek and Blind Willie Johnson
From CENOTAPH


Not the seed pearl, but the juniper
Skewed by wind, baffled,
A vacant zigzag in the elaborate dusk,
A sable altar there on the headland,
That tonight grants calm.

Having lost its oar in the surf,
The wind rehearses a circle
Through the copse of partridge berry and spruce.
The heavens never thought to map
This world afloat in formaldehyde.

Called back. Called back.
The starlight reeks of tallow,
The tallow of flesh.

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Excerpted from Cenotaph by Eric Pankey Copyright© 1999 by Eric Pankey. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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