Warren Falcon Quotes

Dear Low, You did it. You left the trout behind. Sunday the corn was cut down. Apple trees in the nearby orchard were felled which explains the screams I heard a week ago, and the droning of wasps. That hill was exposed this evening at sunset, reflected pink in the sky. Reminds me of the women I always saw through your eyes, their large lips and eyes, the dark thighs particularly, fields without their corn now shedding a purple light like Stevens' Hartford. And you there tonight forsaking the schoolyard we'd walk beside stopping to comment on that view of hills at our favorite wall where 'N*ggers Pandemonium' stalled on hot nights to break beer bottles for your poems' broken glass, curtains you'd pass in the dark where your wheels would splay the stars stuck to tar bubbles on the street when Hart Crane beat his words against your rhythm running down to Montford Park. **'N*ggers Pandemonium was the name of a black bar/club on 'the other side of the tracks' in a racially segregated Southern town. It was black owned and its clientele were mostly black. The bar no longer exists.

Arriving late to love the broken tower mourns its ringing ruin. Long drought of air stills the clapper. But one breath, Trembler, cracks metal. Muteness falls away. Frightened doves scatter. Annunciation of rafters: Come. Remember gaiety, how to sway. Who pulls the rope are many. Silver coin, fly up from empty fountain, renew into wishful hand a saint's pocket prayer returning.

We lay together, two wrecks, Love, wooden ships conjoined by forces too great, too objective to blame. We stretch beside a shoreline, eels play in the one rib of our opened selves, our rarer fingers share at last, gesture horizon to stars, even Sun/Moon entwine before and behind centering a presumably expanding circumference curving inwardly toward itself which is an affection, a longing, a bottom upon which even God can lay hidden from secret admirers such are mirrors whose surfaces are rarely breached. But there is reach. Many ways to say the word 'love'

This ancient tonguing betrays some fault disdaining the human world - which occurred first, the birthing or the wounding? Abjuring flesh of necessity, this, my peace, is false but the music woos, swells me up. It is my sleek, bleak hour remembering Bathsheba's girth. There is some mirth in remembering her, those skirts and veils like a cadence of sweet cakes and guilt...

and O this, this midnight stagger, nothing hurt but trembling hand shaking to dryness, the other leaning into yellow

shall I call then eternity a home for shells, a curve in space? disgrace myself yet again with belief, any one, believe that such shores are a where after all, a place to shelter, each wave somewhere by someone or something counted as is every hair numbered counted still?

Each night there must be one, out there, on the deck, supplicating in boozy tongue, oozing heart-love all over, spurning the way things go down in the world, cheap spindrift the cranes know of dipping their bloated beaks to the waves. And he must dip his head, braying, with his hands motioning to the night - Away! Away!

far where my Mother toiled with me safe upon Her back, my first keel, the bow upon which I first learned to kneel to earth, to sea I rocked in Her motion rowing the faithful Earth the yielding softness of She to me (shipwrecking all my my future hardness eventually) my boy hands not yet bleeding with pens and poems

by Her presence, Her sure toil, lullabies wooing ...the hard soles of Her bare feet, no pesetas, only songs, for shoes The rich cords, veins of the sun and the moon, conjoined in Her labor, hardened into the lead of my first pencil, the lap of my first page And conspiring late within me ran the black ink of Her relentless tenderness

On with the boring center line endlessly dividing though broken on purpose suggesting a way to veer. No guide needed here. Fear is the drive shaft, and longing turns the wheel.