Imagine that the summer’s stringencies Have found themselves alone In a garden, so full of bone Petunias and bone pansies That the Omphalos stone, full Of captive water, full Of bio-mass, with its Subterranean flow—exhibits , In lieu of flowers—cannot pretend To be our final fortune’s final end. Suppose instead the garden is an egg,Continue reading “Omphalos, Again”
Mouths in glass jars cannot be free. They speak but without words. They kiss and smile, they face the anointed wall, they speak of brick and cinder block beneath the plaster walls, they speak of veins in my eyes and in yours… but then they escape through the Thought Gate. Do words have words insideContinue reading “Thought Gate”
Mrs. Gimbal bought me this book, You Made Me Love You. She didn’t want to do it. For three dollars and 95 cents… cash, as she put it. That’s a lot of money. A Harry James songbook. You know you made me do it. We all like Harry James, Jim. But stop with the Summertime,Continue reading “Summertime”
The babysitter sits—as time, as breath. As time, it could be a baby, a snail, the dawn itself—and nothing you could kill— as breath, the grass around the child, a trail too thick to notice…a tension, a poultice . And so the discourse starts again. It’s just the guts this time. I touch its skin.Continue reading “Babysitter”
Each word stakes out the territory, boss. ‘I ate the pie’, means that your pronoun had some other desert. And he deserved it too— despite his desertion, despite the time he spent in the desert… What’s mine cannot be yours; take the gold from my mine, and my mien, with only a scant scintilla ofContinue reading “Klondike”
Speaking of the sidereal, I left the bread out in the rain again last night. It’s soaking wet, ruined, so bloated, like an unnecessary vow— but softer than when fresh. It’s like the rain. The grass is so glorious, so delicious and so full of flowers and yeast again, I forget the years. I do.
Even the mud must be thinking how it no longer can comply with the new restrictions, for not all rivers flow, not in Panama, not in 1945, and not on the July 4th holiday. Surveillance planes still land from out of nowhere, and the kids still throw their dying sparklers out into the calm canal.Continue reading “Your Husband”