Though We May Always Be
In our thoughts we may always be autumnal, wish
to be more like Wren constructing
a cathedral in a ruined city, leave
woodwork to birds. If the angles & arches
perfect, sky will never again consummate with ash.
Our days, counterfeit heavens. The only
thing real about the angel on the ledge
is the ledge. We are on it like a leaf
orienting air. I see your blind eye, though
it is circular it is no panopticon.
The specter may be a foot soldier or
a sheet with holes, a camera obscura locking
small frames in our minds. Though we may
always be autumnal, why not crush down
the ghosts that do not die?
An Eclogue For Brutus’ Wedding
Like an invalid
waiting for a bed
she dreams slow
the monks will make wine
from snow the monks
will murder in the field
She screams one color:
Gold: into the night
then the choir does form
in sharp rows
Stan Mir lives in Rhode Island. His poems and reviews have appeared in American Letters & Commentary, Fence, Meanjin, Rain Taxi, and Word for/Word.