~Always....
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Come Back To Me
Come back to me
where daisies feign
to rule little kingdoms,
in the lines of your palms
crossing those bridges
between You and I, my love.
August 18th, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Storm Over County Road G
I
Beyond the furrows
ravens labored
on the dead ones.
Probed soft fur,
stopped,
looked,
preened blue-oiled tufts,
and drove towards the pines.
They left behind
the last rabbit litter;
sweet blank eyes
would have felt
the first drop.
Blunt on open graves,
under a galvanized sky
the rattling spigot ruptured.
II
We blundered
down the stairs,
soaked as peeper frogs
and sunk into the root cellar,
while centipedes scuttled
and cobwebs hung in our hair.
Here I shushed the children,
listened for the sounds of freight,
symptoms from the east
muted air tasted
like gun metal,
thick and yellow
as quince,
spumous and spreadable.
But no thunderous clap,
or concerto
in thirty-six black notes.
III The first flash
bore into Bertotto's field,
An indelicate bolt of light
splintered the pear tree,
stewed jam ricochetted,
steamed off the cattle gate,
crackled down
drooping wires
at the eaves,
into the telephone
and straight out of
old Mrs. Schulers'
hard muscled hand.
Beyond the furrows
ravens labored
on the dead ones.
Probed soft fur,
stopped,
looked,
preened blue-oiled tufts,
and drove towards the pines.
They left behind
the last rabbit litter;
sweet blank eyes
would have felt
the first drop.
Blunt on open graves,
under a galvanized sky
the rattling spigot ruptured.
II
We blundered
down the stairs,
soaked as peeper frogs
and sunk into the root cellar,
while centipedes scuttled
and cobwebs hung in our hair.
Here I shushed the children,
listened for the sounds of freight,
symptoms from the east
muted air tasted
like gun metal,
thick and yellow
as quince,
spumous and spreadable.
But no thunderous clap,
or concerto
in thirty-six black notes.
III The first flash
bore into Bertotto's field,
An indelicate bolt of light
splintered the pear tree,
stewed jam ricochetted,
steamed off the cattle gate,
crackled down
drooping wires
at the eaves,
into the telephone
and straight out of
old Mrs. Schulers'
hard muscled hand.
Giver
Nearing Catstye Cam
they quivered,
veined and sooty.
You prodded for ore.
Pushed a thumb
into Red Tarn.
Hollowed out
the softness
of summits,
livered beneath
the evening gloam.
My head tilted back;
a scale of grief,
borne before your
leaving.
You were
such a giver.
Lucid
She has all the telltale signs
of a houseplant.
Don't ask about Zen or Sartre.
Into the wooded glen,
unzips her Levi's
and lets him in.
The mosquitos
have triple
hatched
this year.
His thigh itches.
Thinks about Billy Collins.
"Taking Off Emily Dickenson's Clothes".
A study in detachment
of mother-of-pearl buttons.
Ivory lace folds down
to the floor around
sharp, white ankles.
Each piece of clothing
which fell
from her mouth
was a card laid on the table.
'Fifty two pick-up'.
They are both dreamers,
against the tree.
Eyelids half moons,
He of tulle,
Emily's breath and Collins.
She, weighing the possibilities
of plunging headlong
into the ravine below.
Just one slip from her bad hip,
grasping on to branches
which bend green in her hands.
of a houseplant.
Don't ask about Zen or Sartre.
Into the wooded glen,
unzips her Levi's
and lets him in.
The mosquitos
have triple
hatched
this year.
His thigh itches.
Thinks about Billy Collins.
"Taking Off Emily Dickenson's Clothes".
A study in detachment
of mother-of-pearl buttons.
Ivory lace folds down
to the floor around
sharp, white ankles.
Each piece of clothing
which fell
from her mouth
was a card laid on the table.
'Fifty two pick-up'.
They are both dreamers,
against the tree.
Eyelids half moons,
He of tulle,
Emily's breath and Collins.
She, weighing the possibilities
of plunging headlong
into the ravine below.
Just one slip from her bad hip,
grasping on to branches
which bend green in her hands.
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