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
water-gut.
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
slow
Latest
Submit
Subscribe
Archive
Contact
Masthead
About