She's so angry with me, the scissors buttermelt from the friction when I cut her hair. She fruitchecks my cheek and hostage negotiates the soggy clippers out of my hand.
Their legs are trees. He jaguars into the room. He stalks in pajamouflage. A tree root guts him with an upkick, flips him, stunned. He looks up like he's down in the lesson tub looking up at Father. A man's smile wavers in a whiskey glass.
Trains run late. They always run late. Do they even have a schedule?
Last day of winter won't disappoint. Rain one degree from the gentleness of snow rides the added chill of March wind bruising skin blue, or red, dreary, dismal. Olson called it dour.
More interested in finding than knowing. The symposia throng, led by panels, almost political, mostly American, addressing the question, 'What is American about American poetry?'
Working on a foundation reminiscent of a screened-in porch I helped my family build when I was a kid, only much larger. Carting wheelbarrows of sand for the cement mixer & concrete blocks. Old friends showed up…
I lay here in limber fish
(I am not a rice paper kite)
tormented by the wrappers…
After a bath
my very clean ass
said the sign
in the parking lot
I tell her she's superstitious
she fires back:
"You're a poor excuse for a skeptic."
She believes in miracles…
but I can't forget there is your story
like the heavy shoulders
of the sea, how the north
star would be named Melville,
would sit about the broad sky…
Open on the desk Kafka
is flying in his little bucket
the drops of ink he spilled while becoming aloft
form the profile of a woman's swan neck…
Sick maybe, and if so yes for home, but not homesick,
that place where vast pastures continue as horizons—
but scared, and hoping as in a game with friendly players
they let you take back a wrong move. That something…
Nothing is motionless, not the painted portrait
blinking while you're away
whose acids are discoloring buttons, whose frame
is oxidizing while moistening its eyes…
The ocean unfolds itself. The tongue stays put,
unreadable and needless.
We come to watch, speechless to the lake
where dragonflies dip their abdomens like brushes…