It is not possible to jar the soul with coffee
But how I want to—up in the sky with you—
Closer to whatever
I can’t have, and with only a sip.
How easy it is to be a child
In a grown body.
I rowed far out on the lake at night
Though I couldn’t see—
Blind outside and in,
When I first read the poems of Tomas Transtromer
I too wanted to play Haydn on a piano
After a dark day of toy politics
But I saw quickly “the piano”
Was his horse, not mine.
For love be the string and the hand
Be the apple
Or what’s before a whisper
But never be ________.
Cotillions of empty, odd pairings of local wines
And a general absence of conversation.
Printed handbills announce silent auctions—
Half lives burn down in clay, sweetie,
There’s nothing like watching that sweet old donkey lean down for hay.