Shook Out the Ashes, She Did Little

Shook out the ashes, she did
little then not,
more than once,
a further.

Kept and at night,
a studied refinement,
preserved
kindness and strange
sympathy which
it was, anxious
with the day’s labor.

It was our place, to think of here
we are, breath
held, sung inward,
crippled happy
and no one to bandage our smiling
disappearances prettier,
a larger place.







Of Dreams We Remember Little






Of dreams we remember little,
aware of our breathing,
and we know
of others,
who would find us obedient, attentive
yet unaware that clouds
will speech.

Movement together,
vivid obscurity,
glimpses gathered,
watched and struggling to question
such healings, swayed, shocked
and satellitic.

Identities inoculated,
erosion for a time,
enough to make evidence
a wilderness
of home.







It Does in the Dark, If the Water Pretends





It does in the dark, if the water pretends
a secret shape, and down
every time.

At the black sky it sparkles,
enchantingly found,
the strength to suppose a reasoning
animal.

Delicate,
sufficient and,
of acquaintance,
humble,
the same to hold so
bashful
of our when,
and so quite
now.







To Ourselves Devoted and to the Still





To ourselves devoted
and to the still
properly,
practically
that it left out
meanness, we are all
the first blush
of darkness.

We come of the gentlest,
godlike and terrified,
causeless,
all effect, apologies
scattered
and primal.

After immortality,
we became life
to us.







Your Shrieks at Me, Remorseful for All





Your shrieks at me, remorseful
for all your youth
and impatience,
half the time it always grieved me before,
and saved but this in vain, just this once
I said, would ease a pain
startled or partly
wondering anything, wandering
anywhere to say, to not go
prying into the big
deep pleasantly.

To remember
looking at me, that none
of the laughters
we broke made sharing any lighter,
made us ghost the hours
already counted, and always
gently strange.

All I learned I had,
couldn’t
believe in.

We always spare time
with a start,
but only,
then there went another
afterwards.







Not the Shadow About It, Grading






Not the shadow about it, grading
in stages you begin
to see,
a thing for a body,
scarecrowed
behind fences,
variations of a kiss
and weep on,
or equal to
sand sparkling
we are,
happier than simple sobbing,
a flock of blinking
eyelids.

Wings flapping,
blotting out our sundial,
good morning
did you ever ask, why
good morning.

This,
our compass where we met,
brought you here
from all over.







The Mind, Salvation as Substitute





The mind,
salvation as substitute for craving,
of possibility another
time, so don’t be there of pain
since source is meaningless
if.

Identifies with your you,
of emotional cause,
the slightest pleasure
inseparable
from attraction,
tempted before
glimpses, but vibrantly
addictive sympathies.







Just as Glad, the Right Kind of Hoping






Just as glad, the right kind of hoping
and of all sorts,
of them
looking that we all loved,
made a long wish, replaced
the edges.

Sure enough
along the glittering,
all smiles, a sudden
awful.

We are all such brokens,
heard of before,
rumored,
the kind we’ve all known
and shown us
home before
children, and ever
so many.

Wherever they hear,
we are there.




Eric Beeny is the author of Snowing Fireflies (forthcoming 2010 from Folded Word Press) and The Dying Bloom (Pangur Ban Party). His work has recently or will appear in The Adirondack Review, elimae, LITnIMAGE, Matchbook, Pear Noir!, and others. He’s a contributing editor for Gold Wake Press. His blog is Dead End on Progressive Ave.