The good and bad mars the sea

it there, it here. I pass a finger thru

the wire fence that separates property

on the far side of town, power

lines colder in grey sky, just

one or four could disappear, I try

my eyes and follow them not far.

Ready to be already gone on the dirt.

I roll up my pants, they are the same

colour as the bleached, light dirt

and my bare feet make that same

colour in soft, faint brushes.

I live alone, see a man’s face at the window,

a reflection on the cold glass. I read

someone watched the sun go down

that becomes the last time I watched

the sun go down. Some Paris peasant.

Of the flowers you sent, one has a

snaking, curled stem with multiple bulbed

folds and each day a new bloom unfolds

yellow and each day it gets further

and further up the stem, closer and

closer to the tip, which is cruel,

heavy, leans against the aged mirror

in the kitchen.

He said don’t be

afraid to tell them

what you want

Got all these tears in my beers,

killing German, listening to Hank

Williams. Of them I remember,

this girl I went out with once,

said I was not straight enough

for her, I had this exact feeling

right now. I said But I am straight,

and she said Oh, cool. Her problem

was she got tired, but her hair

was red and her face always tilted

up, catching the light in a dim bar.

She tenderly touches the inside of my

thigh, leaves. I follow the tip

of your finger with my eyes,

down and left, down and right,

up and left, up and right.

Of fainting, I ask the optometrist,

she says Sorry honey you need glasses

but your eyes wouldn’t do it. I shrug,

shrug say, Cool, in the old-fashioned

exam chair, a pale turquoise-green,

I watch the flicker of fluorescent bulbs

slight and quick on the grey carpet.

I think she cannot see this.

See right through the old house

to the back door’s frosted glass;

I pass thru an empty frame with exposed

hinges, from the kitchen to the living room,

a classical painting of a boy in

faded hue; he looks to his left, hand

on his lap, the painted white paneling

lifts the roof higher; I pass thru,

the round chair’s leafed pattern and

black carpentry; I pass thru another

open door, just make out the cherry

cabinet next to the final door, see so

clearly your outline, your colours thru

clouded glass, a picture. The house

a finished court. I watch a couple having sex,

I could not believe the woman stood right up

on the bed to take off her shirt, skirt, her thong,

the confidence of that. To not fall naked.

I pick up a tomato from the gilded china

fruit bowl, I squeeze and burst its


I pick up some photos downtown.

I could not tell when I used the film,

the un-tarred roads longer, harder

in November, it took me longer.

I study 5 photos of a reflection

on the tinted glass of the coffee table.

See the reflection is green, the blurred,

soft abundance of summer leaves

thru the window outside and now inside,

I weep at all this focus, this angle.

When I tell you

something on the phone

I can tell when you are

writing it down

I hear a bird sucking air in beak

or wing. Then crows form. Just one

appears, then all form on the

smallest, topmost, bared branches

of a tall tree in the front yard;

the branches sway noiselessly, but hold.

Black on black, how unordered they are,

their flock refusing to flock. I suck on it,

my own disgust.

I roll my pants up further. Of the

bruises on my legs 2 have an

empty radius. I run a finger across

the fence, the still green grass

by the road switches sharp to

light brown as dirt, the last

yellow leaves of distant

trees in the field,

the uneven line

they make out there.

I live alone, see disparate sounds

send me to sleep, send me to sleep.

I imagine I pick up my cello and

I put it down, something I know

but no longer recognize. The fields

do not separate themselves.

I lie on the ground and close my

eyes, arms outstretched, my hair

mixes with the grass

now orange-flecked, patched,

dimpled in the subsiding, my

head slacks a side, my

mouth opens in spite of itself

and the cold air opens me.

I drain all the

mineral content of

this offer

I run bobbling, chaotic,

grinning, in the field,

the wire fence ran out, I touch

dark wooden posts, duck, duck,

the cracks and unexplained purpose

a thrill to behold.

Utility poles hook clouds,

swing further and further away,

I only reach one and it has a rusted

chain around the base, a flap

of a cardboard box, the faded

letters on it, I wonder at this

sign, what it once said,

the wood beneath seems

darker, rotting, and you

cannot see where

it touches the ground,

I came

into the world