Sean Patrick Hill
From where I stand, I could kill the wolves with sleep.
Could pull highway roses to dust and hope that hope abides.
But water stale as cake in boxes often feeds rootless weeds and I am rootless, too.
But nothing, ghost, nothing.
The bear came, snorted, scared the piss out of me at night while I almost slept.
I drove two days to find her.
I gathered sunflowers from the median and kept them in water.
I'm halfway to Denver by morning.
There's enough of me to light a few twigs, sometime, if necessary.
It's not like the nights are colder than the worst of winter.
But this late in the game your game face is not all that's found wanting.
It's anything you make, anything you say, anything you trouble under the sky.
Three geese cross the tenantless sky.
I watch the chimes waver, peeling a thin streak of paint.
Autumn is a closing of tenets.
What I contain beyond mere multitudes and eidolons
The long drive home without money so middling.
At first I thought there were no ravens,
We soon notice that everything has lived in us all along.
The sky we want to say is a great interior
Think of how we might actually call something
Three geese are crossing from one corner to the other,
You could almost respect it for that, if it weren't so
And the raven is largest of the songbirds.
In our ignorance we built the raven up toward failure.
What I mean is, we fashioned a world within a world.
I am terribly interested in the things that hunt between the buildings.
The wild that persists between the slabs of coal ash.
Do you understand?
Let's talk around the conception of borders and the wheeling.
What is out of the question, exactly?
The morning is on to us.
I often wondered when I was young
The sky will outmode us anytime.
We'd be the inverse of ourselves,
We need imagination
The raven as king of the ghosts.
The raven asking—
So that between the window and the casing
a hierarchy of taste,
over which the geese pass, dragging their shadows
Both poems were written simply by getting up early, when I am just coming out of dreams, to try to trigger the kind of freedom of writing akin to Jack Spicer's "dictation." Of the two poems, "Utah" is simply a channeling of experience, a relating of a drive from Oregon to Colorado in which some strangely supernatural things occurred, largely imagistic, at least to me, trying to contain the mood of that summer. "Tannin" is an immediate meditation, what I would consider an almost traditional "poem," at once lyrical and philosophical, just trying to come to grips with aging and what the world means in the loss of imagination—therefore, terribly Romantic, but necessary; I suppose it is a kind of overcoming of bitterness with the imposition of a "necessary fiction."