ARTIFACT Snow splits under the metal shovel and out of a flank of earth he digs up an apothecary bottle, where ground stiffens air grows brittle sun pales earlier each day. This patent remedy sparkles from frozen clods flat, short-necked molded letters still legible: take five drops four times a day. He studies the bottle, imagines sickroom hush hurried footsteps windows shuttered against night air. Sees women with cool lips climbing stairs carrying fresh linen clear broth in nights of granite weather. Imagines faces in shadows speaking in whispers calm hands on white sheets and death, a rustle behind skirts. A hum of recognition in his finger tips, he grips the cold glass, feels the wind's sting, thinks back on those lives deep in winter. then, brushing the bottle clean, he holds it to the light and for a frozen interval stands snowcapped in the lone hurry of time. Daigon INTRUSIONS The birds are at it again. Someone's wound them up and their calls spiral around us. Light swings open its door and the wind says nothing new. The morning moon's still hanging in the saffron sky and as the newest season melts leaves release the light they stored all winter. Blades of grass make delicate intrusions and water sucks at its own edge. Since we're the first to wake it all belongs to us. In rooms filling with daylight best to keep still, lie close to the quick and wait for spring slipping in sure-footed just before dawn with fur and feathers in its mouth. Daigon WINDUP GRAMOPHONE Music hides in the spaces between tracks until the wooden stylus strokes the spiral threading sound through the air. We sway in gat-toothed wonder at Cab Calloway's hi-di-his and ho-di-hos, swoon to Galli Curci's velvet and velour "The Last Rose of Summer", marvel at Caruso's muscular "Celeste Aida". When a scratch holds the needle in the groove, it churns and churns the same broken sound trying to get it right until a hand releases it in a sharp geometry of motion. Moments on the verge, shellac records gleam, crank handles poise midair and needles rest in cups for the ready. Music seductive as silk spills a little island around us. Its scent sticks to fingers, lips, and eye lids: tunes old in the known ways like basil and lemon unguent on the mouth. Juicy underbellies of love songs melt on the tongue like Paradise plums, our mouths and faces open to what's lost and what's left. We float on notes above the staff to a whirl of Straus waltzes, Souza marches brassy and insistent, lullabies rocking in the night's arms. Crooners in vaseline-slicked pompadours tongue us, the air's dense with red hot mamas grinding out the blues, Dixieland struts past. Tunes tapdance on the ceiling YA-DA-DO-DA-DITI-BOP YA-DA-DO-DA-DITI-BOP. Gershwin sings with love inside the octave as we dance together cheek to cheek until the rhythmic scraps on the label like a bass note drifts free. Daigon SURVIVING THE NIGHT After the rioting of stars and the slow affection between dark and light, comes the simple face of heaven and the anthills of morning. When the dark unravels, lovers rise to face the day. The bed holds patterns of their bodies, sheets echo sounds of steady breathing, and the light continues all the way to Jerusalem. He wakes early, runs non-stop toward a green patch where love grows ripe, turnip-hearted, bunched leaves folding into the light. The wind carries his shadow. The rain falls like applause as he races warm in the cloud of his breath. Alone, she listens for the night to roost, for the dawn to rustle, for harmonics from the past. Then, reaching for red spectacles she works her day, sensing the life, the sweep, the luster, agreeing to imperfections and seeing the whole. Their children wrapped in soft bones wait for long arms of daylight, the itch and scratch of spring. They sit at breakfast tables tonguing bread crusts free of butter. The sun's a piece of bait to get them up in the morning. Nothing stirs. Only a grass hopper clinging to a blade weighs it toward its roots. Warm in their skins, they study dirt under their nails and lifelines buried in their fists. Dawn greets them with hellos and home cooking and the world arrives fresh with heat, light, the logic of an apple and life within the core. Daigon WRITING SPACE This house distilled from time invites me in. My dents are everywhere. The chair I sit in, the desk I work at occupy the area I once imagined. Desk, chair slide into place, the width, the breadth, a perfect accommodation. The room inside my private room holds a window's width of sky and a sweet apple of light. Writing letters with indelible ink, I trace an A for you, S for sons, H for home. Smear them with my fingertips taste their salty sweetness feel their scratch and stroke. I watch words vanish off the page making room for more and hear the silence between sentences. Framed by narrow margins they know their limits, and I, within the boundaries of this room and these four walls, know mine. Daigon SAMUEL PEPYS CHEWED TOBACCO DURING THE PLAGUE-RIDDEN DAYS And before our world wanes, before the spiked sun, the rough tongue of wind and light so whole it sucks us in, we'll knuckle wood, fling salt, cross fingers, spit and turn three times around. We'll wish on candles, bones, beginning stars and wear our amulets and rings. With all our zeros here and sweet, clocks whispering in the present tense we'll breathe pure riverrush of life, a spell for sleeping a spell for waking as morning hovers like surprise. While day shifts in the marrow and light goes rainbow in the ditch, we'll tug our shadows in, change our names, walk a crooked mile and tiptoe past the long, long finger tapping. Listen Darling Death, lost in the wonder of your own myth, don't wait up for us we'll be a little while longer. Daigon A FUTURE THAT RESEMBLES NOW In a continuum of clean sheets and white nights I sleep with my watch secure on my wrist and balance on the year's narrow edge. I know some small things: the first frost sweetens, the second kills. In my secret world, light shines like dandelions gone to seed in a moonscape and a single tree draws me to the ferny underbelly of woods. As birds wing in old departures, I'm ambushed by petals, leaf mold, earth crust and a shock of sky. In a future that resembles now I learn to pat death like a dog, it's growing so familiar. When I pick flowers, they root in my palm, tendrils lace through fingers. Long after they fade I'm wrapped in their silk as I rest in the tall grass absolutely still like a stone warmed by the sun denting the earth. Daigon TAKING TIME Skip through the past, and dream of the future as though it were gone. Sunlight touches lightly a room almost remembered, the dark lies heavy on our lips and all the small breathers renew themselves until they're back where they began. Fish climb out of rivers. Children crayon heavens and daffodills open in slow and perfect unison. Set new traps for ancient dreams, preserve the present although it's a lie--like Monet pinching off green for a winter- veined landscape where everything floats in the lake of his eye. Take time by the hand. It has no one to lead it, no father, no mother to call it back home. Pour sand into clocks until day turns inward and tomorrow stretches large as night. With the long sleep still light years away, awaken to air wrapped in silk, abundance of sky, and perch like a cock on a dung hill crowing the morning. Daigon NO BOUNDARIES Ankled in dust, she runs with colt looseness in the lift of leg knees'liquid action choreography of bone and breath outstretched world beneath her. In the blood's first ABC she runs on sinews of paths no maps to where she's going or where she's been. Only the wind blowing ashes of tomorrow. Through prologues of sun and shade she's looking for the wild-seed child all bark and twigs chirping through morning blatant as birdsong On her daily run her heart beats in its narrow cave sweat coats her body drenched in salt and secrets In the corridors of afternoon she runs a relay race with her own shadow catching up with it shrugging it off to join the one just ahead racing toward another shade not knowing where until swift seizures of night and the moon's citrus voice. Daigon BENCH SITTERS Bench sitters on upper Broadway count passing cars and pavement cracks spilling over into empty lots gone wild. Store fronts tilt, weather-scoured like old customers leaning on carts in Safeway aisles waiting for the round-up back to one-room lives. Light dies out. The street steps into darkness. They stand on sidewalks drowning as the past leaks in. Then, like a slow coming-out of sleep, they shuffle back, cook the same soup bone down to stock and vapor, empty the pot and wait for a surpise. They didn't plan it this way. Nothing for the ears. Nothing for the eyes. And night tapering off to a shirt hanging on a nail and a saucer filled with all the cold morning ahead. Daigon