Excerpts from
40 Muses
Copyright © Greg Philby
Daisies
Unrealistic belief.
Why the hell not
fling yourself into it
when your moment comes.
Why not
Copyright © Greg Philby
Deer head
Copyright © Greg Philby
In the Hunter's Cabin
When the does, hope-eyed,
draw out of the night
in search of uncles and brothers
who have not come home,
they find the bucks in here
in the coarsely silted air
and bawdy yellow stain,
leaning in from the walls
happy-cheeked and glassy-eyed
over bourbon and poker,
which is why they leave
silently with cold faces,
the ground cut up by nails
and the plants, shredded.
Copyright © Greg Philby
Copyright © Greg Philby
Flint Hills
When there are no walls around you,
all the possibilities that you failed
to release
kick in your chest
like rabbits with their sharp heels.
Copyright © Greg Philby
Sand
Copyright © Greg Philby
Ah, there is my room, beautifully appointed,
top floor of the western turret.
See there, the job I go to every day,
the gorgeous golden grains of my worth.
And yes, the future, stacked and mounded
and sculpted just as we want.
And see there, our tamped love.
How beautiful it all is, isn't it,
in this crumbling sun and before the coming wave.
Copyright © Greg Philby
Copyright © Greg Philby
Twilight
Copyright © Greg Philby
For this is the long day of me,
as it has always been
with its seasons and 2 o'clocks
and stripings of light.
They come and they go but mainly
they go.
This morning I was born and fed.
A bird sings bloody in my throat.
And here now, my bones are nearly done,
give them just a little longer.
I lower into the deepening.
For this is the long day of me,
as it has always been.
Copyright © Greg Philby
Copyright © Greg Philby
Weeping angel
Copyright © Greg Philby
Copyright © Greg Philby
Weep for him, angel, weep your black heart,
weep his tomb of glossy clean casket, weep
the sterile perfection of the final lines.
weep his reward
of permanent unbroken stillness, weep
that he did not live the dark and primitive truth
of himself, but spent himself into the sleek showcase of these lovely things, unlived,
may he rest in empty peace,
weep your black heart.