whether Prometheus was right
to steal fire from the gods...
first, whether Prometheus stole fire from the gods"
"Once, in a prison far away, there was the condemned laid out under the machine. The prison warden, who took great pride in the machine and was fond of showing the condemned off as Tradition, built a museum around her with money saved from the railroad business."
"The life discloses itself only once
it has burst. In a district inaccessible by ear,
afloat before a deep blue bruise in the sky,
the professional in his cerulean scrubs
gives up, darkens. Sunday drains
through capillary saplings, four-hour drip
beneath the impending dusk, clouds so low
that breathing is underwater labor.
Same distant fin flicker.
Same anemic intervals dim
on your palate."
"The ladkin's listened, uninterruptedly, and understands, somewhat, and speaks slowly, wondering: Will the florist finally retire, roam the skyline, and snip the far, flourishing sunflowers, the sunrise- and sunfall-flowers?
The florist shrugs, and shoulders his hooped-stringed snippers.
The ladkin looks and suddenly says he has seen sky-streaking fire. The florist can climb the dawns, descend the darkfalls, and gather gold, gold-orange, orange-red, red-raving, burning beauty.
The florist finds it incredible. The ladkin, lean and skilled, strong and hale—He himself couldn't climb the dawns, descend the darkfalls, and arrange, around a sempervirent cypress vase, vibrant fire-flowers in impressive arrangements unseen, undreamed of, previously? Pah."
"There was once a man who loved
in secret another man. Helpless
in the grip of love unbestowed he resolved
to speak to his beloved
in code. His heart sang
as he said
Fine weather I'll try Shall we go
and meant I love you, though you'll never
The flaw perhaps obvious
to you was revealed to him
in time: Fine
weather I'll try Shall we go
are not reserved by
tongues for lovers.
He could barely speak
these words to others. But as he heard others
say I'll try Shall we go Be well Take this I will
Did you know he saw
that the world sang endlessly to his love: in prayers
and shouts and the buying of bread, in the rites
of the birthed, the married, the dead."