Song of Worshiping a Dark Star



At dusk, there is nothing but the thin bird’s call
but the fungal,         the man who meditates on
the mountain      the woman and the masseuse
There is nothing but       this tree, this green ink
 These numbers the woman              chants out
the still windmill in the distance,               nothing
draws my attention draws
 in a breath.               It is what I have said here.

Nothing is missing in the   white space evening
sky bends to fog.     Nothing feels like the fuzzy
edge. I run a fingertip along       the mountains
and the horizon.                    Nothing is that color.
Nothing is autumnal. It falls from the gnat’s wing.
Nothing is                the retro-red stove burning
 in the clunky        lodge of awkward wood and
 rough sawn people.                 Nothing repeats
like beans.       Nothing is my center,
my pink sky.                  Nothing dwells in the gut
 with heavy boots.   The pachyderm in the womb.
Nothing the cook tells the wife. Nothing
 is that bird          flat upon the glass
is different than those bird-droppings.
Nothing is different. Search the hands-the lines
 of them-the veins of them,              their soft
wrinkles to find nothing.    Lift the telephone
receiver where           nothing burns the air
that fire of white                 which occupies
 the cavities, the small spaces between toes.
A spoon scrapes nothing from the pot.
There is that singular tree in the distance,
taller and more symmetrical than
 other trees.                      The Tree of Nothing,
 no bird nests in its barren metal limbs, no
leaves twirl away from odd branches,
no cell division in its core.       Nothing
transmitted,  at least. It looks like nothing
to me.                                 About you, I can
 say nothing,                           nothing at all. 

Followers