The Paris Review

           The fruits are ripe, dipped in fire, cooked and tested here
           here on earth . . . —Hölderlin, translated by Richard Sieburth

as was proven
when they entered the house
in which the priest was,
moping and sincere

like all exegetes. Zeppelin
hovered o’er him, bushes fancied him,
but it was to be let down on earth
they all embraced singing.

Further, one was sure
one had come to pass,
yet no slovenly proof was
ever forwarded.

The lines swayed
backwards and forth,
housewives cueuing up for lamb chops
and all that this rhythm implies

excoriated
from above.

The tourist metastasizes his position.
These palms are lucky being within us
no matter what the tyrant truth says.
All along my childhood’s wall

I hoped (was hoping) for this occlusion
but not passionately.
A cheerful emotion hatched,
soon population o’erran the land.

We descended gently toward boats
to hear the boatswains’s
song sung from the capstan, about how life intrudes
on the plodding waves

and no one is certain of desiccation
as a great marrow bone is gnawed.
It is as though a feast had happened
in plain sight. We forgot about the
treasure, forgot it had happened
among the madness of whirling wheat.