In which I take "An Arrow that Shoots" and transform it into a poem with an A-A-A rhyme scheme, in which the rhyme appears in the first, middle and last word of each three line stanza (each time in a different order).

Arrow shoots amid the spheres, amid
The roving planets, the narrow curve of the earth.
Clutches of constellations harrow

The globe; in the heavenly arches, the vast
Living hall, the mast of a celestial architecture has
Cast before itself darkness like light; the sea is

In the sky with no Mars, no Venus.
Why do the black dots, impelled from the mountain trails,
Proffer their bright halo, their shy

Sigh, scoring the crushed earth like tumbling
Stones, white as the rumbling spring of white
Fumbling creeks, sprung rime of Antarctica?

This corncake, hanging heavy on a stalk,
This, the face of genesis, containing every face,
Had it come from within or above the abyss?

Out of this way station from nothing, a
Creation of the only-but-all sheathe of the corn,
The shadowed stones, their letters’ and words’ duration,

A leap, a ship, the first kindly creature
Of the sky, asleep-tumbling and spawning,
Creating the fields of its habitation in the deep.

A poem whose body was robbed from Pablo Neruda.

​There in the heavens
Among the roving planets,
This ballista
Amid the turning
Spheres,
An arrow
That roved
Now shoots before my eyes,
Green.

You are above
Our earth’s straight rows
—these stars,
Constellation clutches--
Only You
Are
In the heavenly arches, living,
The vast hall, the
Darkness
Like light, the brilliance
Of the sky,
The echoing
Chorus,
The sea in the sky,
But nothing--
No Mars,
No Venus,
No sun or moon
Before that celestial architecture.

And so many
Black dots
Impelled
From the mountain trails,
Hollow
Filled
Proffering your
Bright halo,
Flashing,
Reflecting,
Perpetually intersecting,
A blackness scored
Like stars
In the crushed earth,
In the collapsing
Of 
The
Avalanche
Desires,
Like a tumbling stone,
Wind-chime, a dull,
Abraded cone.

Silent
Within each neighbor
King released
Of every river;
To be
White as the sprung rime
Of spring antarctic
To be corncake
Heavy on stalk, once
Infolded
Cortex striving;
In every face
This
Is the only face
That contains every face
Out of this
Way station
From nothing…
It is
The only but the all sheathe of the corn
Amidst the shadowed stones,
Its letters and words
Black
And leaping
As if it were still
A ship from the horizon,
The first
Kindly
Creature
Of the sky: tumbling,
Spawning,
Creating now
The fields of its habitation.

In which I take "There in the Heavens," based on a Pablo Neruda poem, and transform it into a series of "choka" poems.

​An arrow that shoots
Before my eyes, amid the
Turning spheres, amid
The roving planets, there in
The sky, this once-green 
Ballista, which once had roved.
You are above our
Curving earth, these clutches of
Constellations, only You

In the heavenly
Arches, living, in the vast
Hall, the darkness like
Light, the sea in the sky,
No Mars, no Venus
Before that celestial
Architecture. And
So many black dots impelled
From the mountain trails, blackness

Proferring their bright
Halo, scoring, like stars, the
Crushed earth, like tumbling
Stones, white as the sprung rime of
Antarctic spring. This
Corncake hanging heavy on
Stalk. This, the only 
Face (that contains every face)
Out of this way station from

Nothing, the only
But the all sheathe of the corn
Amidst the shadowed
Stones, its letters and words black
And leaping, a ship,
The first kindly creature of
The sky, tumbling and
Spawning, creating now the
Fields of its habitation.

​Little bird running
Across the lawn. Why? Where to? 
Blue with black bands on its head.
The sky devours the
Entire world. Mmmm, it tastes good.
The blue sky remains empty.

​I no longer try
To fly. I can, for twenty
Minutes at time.
I come back, though, I
Bring no one with me, I bring
Back no gifts, I am
Short-tempered, possessed, display
No souvenirs of the trip.

​Today, my fear crowds
me. It fills my throat, expands
In my head, presses 
My face like a blanket. My
Heart squirms it is a
Fish and it tries to flee. It
Is a band tied on
My temples. Look at the sky.
It is a band on the east.

​At first, what I said
made sense. After a while, it
didn’t need to make
sense. All that was left was the
knife and the blood 
and the passion. Rage, blood, the
clumsy stab. It seems
tawdry, but of this I wove
a glory, romance and pride.